


The Gold

by superstringtheory



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky has a vault named after him, Bucky is a giant fucking tease, Bucky is a huge tease, Button Popping, Chubby Kink, Coach!Sam, Coming In Pants, Eventual Smut, Feeding Kink, Food Kink, Friends to Lovers, Gymnastics, Hand Feeding, Light Dom/sub, M/M, MCU AU, Men's Artistic Gymnastics, More tags to be added, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, No one cares about pommel horse, Sick Bucky Barnes, Sick Character, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers is a pro at blow jobs and no one can tell me any different, Steve Rogers: blowjob olympic champion, Steve is bossy, Steve vaults into Bucky's heart… and then his pants, Thor has biceps as thick as Steve's waist, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Weight Gain, and by nsfw I mean sending pics of empty food containers, as accurate to men's gymnastics as possible, carboloading as unintentional foreplay, chubby bucky, discussion of whole chocolate cakes, eventual feeding of whole chocolate cakes, eventual gentle dom!Steve, flirting over food, flirting with food, gymnastics AU, i mean that's what I find nsfw, nsfw text message flirting, rhythmic gymnast!Natasha, rings specialist Thor, save a pommel horse ride Bucky, some tags are for future chapters, this fic is of no relation to the film atrocity The Bronze except for its title
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9404777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superstringtheory/pseuds/superstringtheory
Summary: Bucky Barnes: former world vault champion. Injured. Retired. Grumpy. Recently chunky.Steve Rogers: up and coming gymnast on the world scene, attempting to learn Barnes' eponymous vault. Interest piqued by Barnes' new physique.The meet-cute: Bucky begins to coach Steve on his vault technique. Steve tries to control his raging crush and desire to find out just how much Bucky can eat (especially in the bedroom).Will Steve win the gold (and Bucky's heart)?





	1. Chapter 1

“Three full sets and then conditioning. Let’s move it, fellas.” Coach Wilson claps his hands together, and a little puff of chalk appears in the air and then dissipates. 

 

Steve Rogers adjusts his grips and goes over to the chalk bucket, which is really just a big plastic garbage can with the lid upside down on top of it. He sprays a little water on the leather band of his grips from the spray bottle hanging on the edge of the bucket, and then puts his hands in the top and rubs them around in the chalk. 

 

“Three full sets? Whew,” Clint Barton taps his own hands into the chalk for a moment, and then hops up and down a little. “My arms already feel like spaghetti.” 

 

“The only spaghetti I want to think about right now is a big plate of it after practice,” Steve says, and moves away from the chalk bucket. “Hey, Thor-- boost me?” 

 

Thor-- the team’s resident rings specialist-- is taller and bulkier than a typical gymnast. The first time Steve had seen him, he’d texted his friend Natasha, a rhythmic gymnast from his club gym back in New York, “You wouldn’t believe this guy’s biceps! They’re as wide as my HEAD!!!” 

 

“Can you tell him about how flexible I am?” Natasha had texted back, along with the winky face emoji. “When can I come visit?” 

 

“Sure,” Thor says, and Steve gets into position underneath the high bar. Thor puts his big hands around Steve’s waist, and lifts him up. Steve starts into a tap swing in mixed grip, and then goes for his first release series-- a Kovacs to a laid-out Tkatchev to a piked Tkatchev. By the time he finishes his dismount-- with several steps-- he’s breathing hard. 

 

“A little early on the dismount,” Coach Wilson says, but Clint pats Steve on the shoulder, leaving a chalk handprint. 

 

“Just two more,” he grins, and even though Clint gets even more corrections from Coach Wilson on his next two routines, he’s still smiling by the end. 

 

Steve makes it through the rest of his sets with only minor errors and better landings on his dismounts. 

 

“Good,” Coach Wilson says to him. “Much better, Rogers. A little iffy on some of the pirouettes that time, but the stick was phenomenal. The judges are always going to remember a stick like that.” 

 

Steve nods, taking a long pull from his water bottle. It’s a little unfair, yes-- but true. A near-flawless routine with a big step on the landing might not score as high as a routine with smaller errors throughout and a big stick. Of course, this is all simplification, but Steve knows that the crowd, at least-- will always remember the stick. 

 

***

 

As the team moves on to their conditioning sets, Steve notices a dark-haired guy in sweats sitting on the side, reading a book. 

 

“Hey,” he pants to Clint as they’re taking a short rest from sprinting drills, “Who’s that guy over there?” 

 

“Don’t try to skip a set, Rogers,” Clint pants back, but follows up the next time they’re on a rest, “That’s Bucky.” 

 

“Bucky? Who’s Bucky?” The guy looks a little familiar somehow, but Steve can’t quite put his finger on how he might know him. He has to wait until the next sprint set is over to find out, though. 

 

“You know,” Clint says, “Barnes.” He swipes Steve’s water bottle from his hand and takes a long drink.

 

“Hey!” Steve says, but halfheartedly. Clint takes another drink just to be an ass, and then hands the bottle back. Steve thinks for a second. “You don’t mean… like,  _ Barnes _ Barnes? Like former world medalist Barnes? The one who, like, tore his everything in Russia?” 

 

“Yuuuup.” Clint gives Steve a knowing look. “What, you didn’t recognize him? Aren’t you learning his eponymous skill?” 

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, but distractedly. “I just-- he looks...  different, that’s all.” 

 

Clint barks a short laugh. “That’s Rogers polite for ‘he looks like the injury devastated him and he ate his feelings.’” 

 

Steve takes a long drink of water to avoid answering, and then Coach Wilson is yelling at them to hustle their asses, and then there’s more conditioning, and then practice is over and it’s finally time to go home and eat dinner. 

 

“It’s okay,” Clint says, jostling Steve’s arm as they move toward the locker rooms to get changed. “He’s not embarrassed about it.” 

 

Privately, Steve’s not sure how true that could be, but he goes along with it for the time being. He’s always kind of had a thing for beefier-- well,  _ fatter _ \-- dudes, and his interest is definitely piqued. 

 

***

 

Clint must’ve sensed  _ something _ in Steve’s tone, because before Steve knows it, he’s gone and dragged Barnes-- Bucky-- into the locker room and has invited him and Thor and Tony and Viz and Pietro to come out for Italian food with them. 

 

Barnes-- Bucky-- looks grumpy and like he’d rather still be reading his book. At home. While eating marshmallows out of the bag. 

 

Steve shakes his head to clear it. These are  _ not _ the kind of thoughts he should be having right now. 

 

“Yo,” Clint says, interrupting Steve’s thoughts by putting an arm around his shoulder, “This is the newbie, Steve. He’s learning your vault, Buck.” 

 

Barnes--  _ Buck?! _ \-- grunts acknowledgement. 

 

“That’ll make you-- what, the second person ever to do it?” 

 

Steve’s not sure whether this comment of Clint’s is for his benefit or Barnes’, or if it’s just Clint running his mouth as usual. 

 

“I guess,” Steve says finally, while Barnes looks at the floor. 

 

“Okay,” Clint says, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s go, fellas.” 

 

***

 

Somehow Steve ends up squished in the backseat of Thor’s red Jeep Grand Cherokee in between Barnes and Pietro. He accidentally elbows Barnes when he’s searching for the middle seat’s seatbelt, and he can actually feel himself go red. 

 

“Sorry, uh, Bar--” 

 

“It’s Bucky.” 

 

That’s the last Steve hears him say until they’re at the restaurant and Bucky puts in his order with the waitress-- large raisin-and-cheese ravioli, extra meatball, extra sauce. Large Coke. 

 

Thor orders appetizers for the table, but since almost all of them are getting competition-ready, they largely go untouched except for a few olives here and a piece of prosciutto there-- except by Bucky, who plows through the majority of the antipasti without a word. 

 

By the time the waitress returns with their entrees, Bucky’s ready for his second large Coke, too-- not that Steve’s noticing or anything. Jesus. No, he’s not just noticing; he’s so fucking distracted he hardly knows his fork from his knife. 

 

This-- this might be a problem. 

 

***

 

Despite eating pretty much the whole table’s share of the antipasti appetizers, Bucky trucks on through his huge order of pasta and meatballs and shakes what looks like about a quarter cup of parmesan on top of it all. 

 

Steve’s used to his teammates eating big-- carboloading, endless meat, protein shakes… but this is something else altogether. Bucky eats like it’s a new Olympic event and he’s gunning for the gold. 

 

After everyone-- except Bucky, whose plate is scraped clean-- is picking at their entrees and yawning behind their hands, the waitress returns and chirps, “Anyone up for dessert?” 

 

“Just the check, please,” Tony butts in, because everyone else looks about ready to fall asleep in their plates and since his rich, dead, homophobic dad hated gymnastics, Tony likes to take every opportunity he can to “spend all of his money on you gay mofos” (“I know you’re not all gay,” Tony had said, “but it’s the principle of it”). 

 

“You sure?” the waitress says, and Steve doesn’t blame her-- a tableful of beefy dudes in sweats, yeah, he’d want to hang around an extra minute, too. 

 

“Slice of chocolate cherry cheesecake,” says a low voice from across the table. It’s not a question. 

 

Steve’s not even sure why he’s surprised. 

 

***

 

Bucky eats the cheesecake with the same determination as he’d had with the appetizers and his meal, but to someone paying close attention-- like Steve-- it seems like Bucky’s struggling a bit. His hand dips down below the table a few times to give his belly a sort of soothing pat, and Steve’s own hands itch with wanting. 

 

Bucky’s still a solid, muscular guy, but that muscle is now beneath a solid layer of fat. Steve can’t get over it-- he’s never considered himself a  _ chubby chaser _ or anything, but-- yeah, he can admit that the guys he normally gets all hot and bothered over are definitely more on the tipping side of the scale. 

 

Watching Bucky eat, though-- Steve has to be careful or pretty soon he’ll be drawing blood from clenching his fists so hard and digging his nails into his palms. Watching Bucky, one of his gymnastics idols, one of the guys who made Steve want to throw the hard skills and throw them well, eat like he’s now on the competitive eating circuit instead of the men’s gymnastics one-- something about it just gets Steve really riled up. As soon as they get back to the house, he’s taking a shower. A long one. And-- he hears Bucky’s fork clatter to an empty dessert plate-- probably a cold one. 

 

*** 

 

The house is a big, rambling Victorian in a residential neighborhood. Many of the men’s national team gymnasts live at the OTC, the Olympic Training Center, and Steve had planned to do that as well, but then he’d gotten an email from Tony Stark-- aka, 2012 men’s Olympic Team captain, like,  _ that  _ Tony Stark-- inviting him to come and live in Tony’s house. 

 

“Clint says you’re good people. I like good people,” Tony had emailed, and then had added Steve to a group email chain with the other roommates-- Clint, Viz, Pietro, and Rhodey, Tony’s friend from childhood. 

 

Clint is Steve’s oldest friend-- they didn’t grow up at the same gym, but they were in the same region, so they competed at the same meets a lot-- and often found themselves at the top of the podium together. So much so that eventually they just kind of became friends, and then roommates at junior national training camps and for two years in college at Oklahoma. 

 

Steve also knows the other guys pretty or at least passably well from past national team camps and competitions. Since he’s a little younger and has just finished college, Clint and the other roommates have lived out here in Colorado for a few years now and Steve is just starting out after a stellar college gymnastics career. 

 

It’s only his first week living in Tony’s house, but already Steve can tell that he likes it-- and this feeling is supported by the fact that as soon as they’re done at the restaurant, Tony invites Bucky over for a “nightcap”-- even though they have practice early the next morning and Steve knows full well they’re probably all going to fall asleep on the couch. 

 

Bucky acquiesces, and so after a tense car ride where Steve tries-- and fails-- not to replay the mental images of Bucky clearing his plates over and over in his head, finally Thor drops them off at the house, parking behind Tony’s obnoxious orange Audi. Thor beeps the horn to say goodnight, heading back to his own house where his wife, Jane, and their adorable baby daughter, Darcy, are waiting for him. 

 

Rhodey is in the kitchen when they arrive, and so is Bucky. He’s slumped down in one of the kitchen chairs like he’s too full to do anything else. At least, that’s what Steve imagines. 

 

“Tony’s making hot chocolate,” Rhodey says, with a roll of his eyes. With Tony, everything is a production. 

 

“Hey,” Tony says, bustling into the kitchen from the pantry, his arms full of cocoa mix and marshmallows, “Little boys”-- he shoves a can of cocoa mix into Rhodey’s chest-- “who complain don’t get extra marshmallows.” 

 

At this-- and maybe it’s Steve’s imagination-- Bucky seems to sit up a little bit, like he wants to be a good little boy. Steve’s certainly ready to flex his imaginary muscles once he goes to bed in picturing Bucky being a good boy for Steve. Jesus. 

 

Steve really has to get himself together. The poor guy’s had a rough go of it lately-- world champion on vault, expected to repeat his victory, and then had a horrifying injury on high bar during the all-around competition and didn’t get to compete in the vault event final or even finish the competition. Steve’s sure that Bucky just wants to fly under the radar and be left alone-- although it seems like he’s not quite ready to leave his gymnastics friends and teammates behind, if his presence here tonight is any indication. 

 

Steve’s just resolved to stop objectifying Bucky and work on concentrating on his gymnastics-- that’s why he’d moved out here anyway-- when he zones back in and realizes that Bucky’s got chocolate foam on his upper lip. And that Steve wants nothing more than to lick it off. 

 

Well, no one ever said he couldn’t have a hobby, right? And if that hobby is “cheer up/seduce grumpy retired gymnast by feeding him,” well-- Steve hates himself for using this phrase, but-- YOLO. 

  
“Hey,” Steve says, grabbing the bag of marshmallows from the counter and moving over to Bucky. “Do you need another marshmallow?” 


	2. 2

After the night of the huge Italian dinner and the hot chocolate, Steve doesn’t see Bucky again for almost two weeks (except in his masturbatory fantasies, where Bucky eats whole chocolate cakes as Steve takes him apart piece by piece until Bucky’s full and absolutely _ begging  _ for it). 

 

In fact, when Steve does see Bucky again, it’s such a shock to his system that he spins right off the pommel horse and onto his ass on the mat. Classy. 

 

“Rogers!” Coach Wilson says. “What the hell was that?” 

 

Clint sniggers, and Steve shoots him a death glare. 

 

“Sorry, Coach.” Steve readies himself to re-mount the apparatus and uses every ounce of his concentration to keep from thinking about Bucky. Shit, just thinking about not thinking about Bucky is distracting. 

 

“Rogers!” He’s on the mat again, and Coach Wilson is shaking his head. “Go grab a drink, Steve, clear your head. This team needs hits on pommels if it’s ever going to win a team medal again.” Steve swallows guiltily-- he knows this, it’s been drilled into them day after day,  _ pommels pommels pommels _ being pummelled into their brains, but Jesus Christ. Pommel horse is so boring that it makes Steve want to cry chalk. 

 

“You all right?” Tony looks serious. 

 

“I’m good, thanks.” Steve unwraps his wrist guards and heads over to grab his water bottle. This Bucky thing is seriously getting to be a problem. 

 

***

 

It’s even more of a problem when, after the pommels and parallel bars rotations, Coach Wilson calls Steve over to him and says, “Rogers. I brought somebody in to help you with your vault.” 

 

Steve feels like he looks like a wide-eyed child. And sounds about as dignified. “Uhhh… what was that?” 

 

“Barnes. You know, the guy who invented your vault?” Coach Wilson’s tone is sardonic. 

 

Steve swallows. “Yeah, I know him. Of him, I mean.” His fingernails are digging into his palms again, and he unclenches his fists and worries at the velcro on his wrist supports instead. 

 

“Yeah, well, he’s over there.” Coach Wilson jerks his thumb towards the row of chairs set up on the edge of the vault runway, where Bucky is sitting, looking bored (and, from this angle, deliciously chunky in a tight USA Gymnastics t-shirt). 

 

“Um.” 

 

Coach Wilson gives Steve’s shoulder a little push. “Go on, then. I want you to show Barnes some warm-up Dragulescu’s and then your attempts at his vault into the pit.” He claps his hands together, looking pleased as Steve slowly walks over towards where Bucky is sitting. 

 

“Hey.” 

 

“Let’s see what you’ve got.” Bucky has his arms crossed over his chest, but he looks mildly interested. 

 

Steve starts his warm-ups and timers, and then moves on to some Dragulescu vaults (a handspring double front with a half twist). Bucky surveys him silently, and Steve does five vaults without any comment from his new coach. 

 

Steve sticks the fifth vault cold, and meets Bucky’s gaze. Bucky stays silent. 

 

“Hey there,” Steve starts, breathing hard. “You ever going to say anything, or what?” For the moment, he forgets how wildly attracted he is to Bucky, and how Bucky’s t-shirt is straining over his chest and stomach. “I just stuck the crap out of that vault and you have nothing to say.” 

 

“I’m thinking.” Bucky stretches his arms over his head, and a sliver of belly peeks between the t-shirt and his sweatpants. Steve almost swallows his tongue. 

 

“All right,” Bucky says slowly. “I’m liking your form on the Dragulescu, but I need to see your attempts at… at the other vault before I decide what I want you to work on first.” 

 

“You mean the Barnes.” 

 

“Yeah.” Bucky looks sheepish, running his hand through his hair. “The Barnes. Yeah, that. Uh… let me see a few of those into the foam pit.” 

 

“Okay.” Steve readjusts his wrist supports and heads back down the runway. He moves over to the next vault setup, which is in front of a large pit filled with blue foam cubes. He carefully marks his starting spot on the runway and then does a warmup timer into the pit, getting the feel for it. 

 

“Now the Barnes,” Bucky instructs, and Steve nods as he passes by where Bucky is standing to the side of the vault table. 

 

Steve takes a moment to breathe at the end of the vault runway. He can hear Coach Wilson’s voice in the background, giving Tony pointers on rings. There’s also the rhythmic sound of tumbling from the direction of the floor, where Clint and Pietro are taking turns tumbling diagonally. And then there’s Bucky down at the other end of the runway, huge and hot and-- maybe hungry? 

 

Jesus, Steve. Concentrate on vaulting. Steve takes another deep breath and then begins his run, blocking off of the vault table for two flips forward with a full twist in the second flip. It’s an okay vault, but his landing is a little short and he knows that it’s still not ready for a mat, much less for the hard surface landing of competition. 

 

“Again.” Bucky says. “Again. Again.” 

 

Steve loses track of how many times he does the Barnes into the pit. Finally, Bucky cups his hand and motions for Steve to come here. Steve struggles a little to get out of the foam cubes. Of course. 

 

“Fuck,” Steve says under his breath as he finally makes his way out, and Bucky chuckles. 

 

“No elegant way to climb out of that thing,” he says, and Steve nods in agreement, feeling his cheeks flame red. 

 

“You got that right. So what’s the verdict?” 

 

“Come sit down for a minute.” Bucky starts back over to the chairs by the other vault table, and Steve follows, enjoying the way that Bucky’s sweatpants hug his chunky hips. 

 

Bucky reaches for the small whiteboard underneath one of the chairs, used for when the OTC holds internal competitions and brings in judges to score their routines so they know what to expect in actual competition. 

 

His fingers almost grasp the whiteboard when his arm spasms and he jerks it back, a pained expression on his face. 

 

“You all right?” Steve leans forward and snags the whiteboard and attached marker himself. 

 

“Yeah.” Bucky carefully rotates his shoulder in the socket and stretches out his arm, wincing. “Just the arm, you know?” 

 

“I… uh, I heard.” Steve’s not about to mention that he watched it happen live from the bleachers in Sochi, where a repurposed Olympic arena had been used for the world gymnastics championships. Steve had been there to cheer on Clint, who had made the team along with Bucky and Tony. 

 

Bucky had made the all-around final and had been having the competition of his life, hitting routine after routine, sticking dismounts and earning huge scores. He’d been on track to fight for the top of the podium with the finalists from Japan and China and Russia, and it’d come down to his final event: high bar. An event that Bucky’d never been stellar at, but certainly good enough and so far ahead of the others on vault and floor that his lower high bar score didn’t make a big enough difference to drop him in the rankings. 

 

He’d been on the last release sequence before the dismount-- almost through the set, almost done with doing all he could to win the competition, when his left grip had gotten stuck around the high bar, basically destroying his arm. 

 

It had been horrifying to watch in Youtube videos, much less from the same room. The collective gasp of the crowd. The scramble to keep the competition going afterwards. Bucky lying on the mat, sharp cheekbones wet with tears of pain and disappointment. 

 

Those same cheekbones aren’t quite as sharp now-- Bucky’s still breathtakingly handsome, but his jawline has softened, and when he looks down, his chin doubles in a way that makes Steve want to grab him and stick his tongue down his throat. 

 

“Anyway.” Bucky clears his throat. “I’ll be all right. It just does that sometimes, the shoulder. Has a mind of its own, y’know?” He shakes his head as if to clear it, and uses his right hand to make a grabby motion for the whiteboard in Steve’s lap. 

 

Steve quickly hands it over, uncapping the marker and giving it to Bucky as well. 

 

Bucky thinks for a moment, then scrawls on the board: 

  * FOCUS
  * STEPS 
  * BLOCK
  * TWIST
  * STICK



 

Steve takes a minute to read these over. He doesn’t want to be insulting-- Bucky is gorgeous, totally his type, and this is  _ his _ vault. But doesn’t all of this seem really obvious? 

 

“Uh… this is all great, but I’m a little confused,” he starts out. “Aren’t I already doing all of these things?” 

 

Bucky surprises him by snickering immediately, and loudly. Loud enough that Clint and Tony and Thor, over at rings, look up and give Steve knowing looks. Steve flips them the bird and then re-focuses on Bucky, who’s surveying him with a bemused expression in his grey eyes. 

 

“If you were,” he says, “Wouldn’t your Barnes be competition-ready by now?” 

 

Steve has to admit, he has a point there. 

 

***

 

At the end of practice, Steve is sweat-drenched and about ready to combust from so much close contact with Bucky. 

 

Bucky, whose tight-t-shirted gut had brushed against Steve several times as he’d given Steve corrections for his arm placement on his block. 

 

Steve wants nothing more than to take Bucky home and peel that shirt off of him slowly, unwrapping his pudge like a gift. Wants Bucky to submit to him, to call him sir and sit up straight against the headboard as Steve feeds him heaping spoonfuls of ice cream until Bucky safewords out. 

 

Steve’s still not sure what precipitated this all-consuming preoccuption with Bucky and his new, thicker figure. Sure, he’d always been a fan of Bucky’s gymnastics and thought that he was gorgeous-- but it had never been such a  _ thing _ before. But-- those visible love handles and the little dimple of Bucky’s bellybutton showing through his shirt. The single-minded way that Bucky had plowed through pasta and cheesecake until he couldn’t take a deep breath. 

 

Something about that just gets Steve right in the libido. 

 

***

 

When he gets out of the shower and goes to the main locker room, Tony and Clint are standing around shooting the shit, both already dressed. 

 

“Saw you working with Bucky,” Tony says, arching an eyebrow. “Looks like you really dug into the Barnes, huh?” 

 

Steve flushes, and Clint sniggers until Tony elbows him. 

 

“Yeah,” Tony continues nonchalantly. “We saw you looking at our boy Barnes.” 

 

“Uh--” Steve starts, but Tony cuts him off. 

 

“You’re not as sneaky as you might think, little padawan. But don’t worry. We’d all love to see this happen. Bucky’s had a rough go of it, and he could use some TLC a la Rogers.” 

 

Steve swallows hard. “I, uh. Uh. Thanks?” 

 

“Just listen to your Jedi masters and you’ll be all right,” Clint says. “We saw him check you out, too, you know.” 

 

“What?!” Steve almost drops his towel. 

 

Tony chuckles. “I think he likes watching you climb out of the pit.” 

 

Clint laughs, then, a real, full-bodied laugh, and isn’t able to stop when Pietro pokes his head in the door and asks what’s so funny. 

 

Steve opens his mouth to say something,  _ anything _ , to keep the others from talking about his crush. Tony beats him to it, though. 

 

“Just letting Steve know how dignified he looks climbing out of the pit fifty times an hour.” 

 

“Yeah,” Pietro crows in agreement. “You look like a beetle stuck on its back!” 

 

“That was one time,” Steve says hotly, wanting to erase the mental image of Thor having to come and pull him out of the pit. He’d underrotated his vault on one turn and ended up completely stuck. 

 

“All right, fellas,” Tony says eventually. “Time to go home, eat, and hit the hay. We have to do this all again tomorrow.” 

 

***

 

That night Steve falls asleep thinking about feeding Bucky until he’s similarly stuck, but not on his back in the foam pit, but lazy and glutted on the couch. Bucky blinking at him sleepily, eyes calm and trusting. 

  
Bucky: his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! A little gym info~
> 
> Here's the Dragulescu vault: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GYhqSaTZqkk
> 
> And here's the (fictional) Barnes (attempted by Dragulescu, but never competed successfully): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNUDCCG3PEQ
> 
> And here's a typical pommel horse routine (for a US guy): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYFj3tp6KsU I spend hours a week watching videos of gymnastics and I can't tell any of these skills apart. I think that says more about pommel horse than it does about me. #noonecaresaboutpommels
> 
> Also: come find me on tumblr and say hi! I'm superstringtheory.tumblr.com- I mostly talk about chubby Bucky (and Seb). :)


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new gymnastics skills in this one, sorry, guys! But plenty of slow burn-flavored flirting, over food and with food. Enjoy. ;)

The rest of the week passes in a blur of practice, conditioning, and jerking off. After Friday’s practice, where Bucky wears an old white meet t-shirt that’s nearly see-through it’s so tight and uses his calloused hands to show Steve how his arms should be wrapping in for the twist, his belly brushing against Steve’s back, Steve even gets himself off in the locker room shower. Like, while all of his friends and teammates are in the next stalls or right in the next room. 

 

Reiterated: this Bucky thing is still a problem. 

 

That night, Tony throws an impromptu party. At least that’s what he says. But judging by the catered food and the bartender and the fact that he’d flown Natasha in as a surprise, Steve’s pretty sure that it’s been planned for a while. 

 

“Hey there,” Steve says, startled, as Natasha opens the front door of Tony’s house. He kisses her on the cheek and pulls her to him. She’s got her long red hair tied back in a complicated braid and is wearing a lot of eye makeup that coordinates with her outfit. 

 

Natasha returns the hug, then stands on tiptoe to murmur in Steve’s ear. “Your new friend Tony said that you have a little crush. I had to come out here and see.” 

 

“You catty minx,” Steve growls, but squeezes her an extra time. “Remind me to thank Tony later, huh? It’s good to see you.” 

 

“You too,” Natasha says, then surveys the rest of the room. She notices Thor standing with his wife and holding their baby girl in the crook of one giant arm. She pokes Steve in the pec, hard. “I’m still disappointed, by the way, that you failed to immediately mention that Mr. Biceps was married.” She pokes Steve again, for good measure. 

 

“Ow, hey. I didn’t know you were going to develop a complex, Nat. And besides, there are plenty of other dudes with huge biceps around here. In case you didn’t notice, this is like, the men’s national gymnastics team.” 

 

“I suppose,” Natasha flicks a piece of imaginary dust off of Steve’s shoulder and then sticks her hand into the crook of his elbow. “You’d better get to introducing me, then.” She rearranges the braid over her shoulder and practices some eyelash flutters on Steve, who by now has grown immune to her charms. 

 

“Wait,” Steve tells her. “I thought you came out here to see Bucky-- I mean. Uh. My crush.” 

 

“Psh.” Natasha looks nonchalant. “Please. I already know Bucky, Steve. We trained together in Russia before Worlds. The rhythmic girls shared a practice gym with the men’s team.” She smirks. “I got to know some of the guys.” 

 

“Oh, really?” Steve uses the opportunity to poke Natasha himself. 

 

“Shut it,” Natasha says, unlinking her arm. “Not like  _ that _ . I mean… mostly. Bucky was my favorite, though.” She smiles, and Steve can’t help smiling back as Natasha rearranges her hair once again. “Now take me over there,” she commands, pointing to where Clint is sitting in one corner of the living room. “I like the looks of that guy’s biceps.” 

 

***

 

Clint, as it turns out, is  _ very _ receptive to the kinds of vibes that Natasha is putting out, and once the two are engaged in conversation, Steve excuses himself and wanders over to the kitchen, where Rhodey is playing bartender and Tony has his arm around the waist of a dark-haired woman that Steve doesn’t know. 

 

“Hey there, young one,” Tony says casually. “How’s it hanging?” 

 

“First of all,” Steve starts. “You’re only four years older than me, and second of all”-- he lowers his voice-- “you flew Nat out here so she could watch me fail at flirting? Ouch.” 

 

Tony’s companion laughs lightly, and Tony turns to her and gives her a quick kiss. “Pardon my manners, Rogers-- I’d like to introduce you to May.” 

 

“Pleasure,” Steve says shortly. “But--” 

 

“Ah ah ah.” Tony cuts him off. “No one ever said you were failing at flirting, Padawan.” 

 

“... What?” 

 

“Take it like this: I haven’t seen Barnes smile like that since before the thing with his arm. All right?” Tony arches an eyebrow, and Steve feels himself blush as he smiles back. 

 

“Okay then,” Tony says. “Now May and I better go make sure that Peter’s not getting himself into the adult beverages.” 

 

“Wait… Peter? Like, junior national champion Peter Parker?” 

 

Now it’s Tony’s turn to blush, which he tries to hide by taking a big sip of his drink, and choking on it. He coughs as May pats his back. 

 

“Sorry,” May says. “He gets like this. And yes-- Peter is my nephew. I’m his legal guardian. And to save the long story, yes, Tony and I met at a meet and greet that he was doing at a state competition.”

 

“In my defense”-- Tony sniffs-- “she was wearing a very-- ah--  _ flattering _ blouse.” 

 

May shrugs and kisses Tony on the cheek. “He totally hit on me while Peter was getting his picture taken with him. But it’s okay. I thought he was charming.” She smiles at him. 

 

“And thank God.” Tony tips his chin back and finishes his drink, and then waggles his fingers at Steve. “Now you-- go hit on your dude. Here”-- he gestures at the counter, where there is an impressive array of appetizers-- “bring him something to eat. You know he likes that.” 

 

***

 

Steve--who hadn’t even seen Bucky arrive-- gulps, and then piles a plate high with prosciutto and fancy cheese, kabobs and tiny tarts. 

 

He scans the living room from the fringe-- he spots May and Tony now engaged in conversation with Bruce Banner, the men’s assistant head coach. Peter is chatting with Scott Lang, another of the junior national team boys. Clint and Natasha are still in the corner, and look to be getting along very well, if the fact that they’re now magnetized at the lips is any indication. Coach Wilson is on the loveseat with Thor’s baby asleep in his lap, while Thor and his wife chat with him. Viz and Pietro appear to be making weird mixed drink concoctions in the kitchen. 

 

Then Steve spots him-- Bucky, sitting in the corner of the couch, hoovering a plate of cookies, a hipster-y bottled beer wedged between his thighs. Steve definitely wouldn’t mind being that beer bottle right about now. 

 

Steve rallies up his courage and makes his way over to Bucky and sits next to him on the couch. 

 

“Hey,” he says. “I brought you a refill on the appetizers. Figured it’d be hard, with the arm and all.” 

 

Bucky surveys him for a long moment, and Steve can’t tell whether Bucky is insulted or amused. But then he smiles slightly and reaches for the plate in Steve’s lap. 

 

“Thanks,” he says, and immediately shoves a mini cheesecake bite into his mouth. 

 

***

 

“So,” Bucky says, still chewing, “How’s the Colorado life treating you?” He pops another cheesecake bite into his mouth. 

 

Steve is not staring, he’s not. 

 

“Um. Well, the OTC is great, and I love living here with Tony and the other guys...” Steve says, trailing off lamely. This is getting off to a great start. 

 

“‘S a nice house,” Bucky says, mouth full again. God, Steve would like to keep it that way. “Got a nice kitchen.” 

 

Of course. Of course Bucky would appreciate the kitchen. 

 

“Nice to have my own room, too,” Steve says, and then realizes that that could sound a little like a come-on. (But does he mind?) 

 

“It is nice,” Bucky replies, nibbling at a kabob. “I’ve got my own place, too. Nice to be able to just stretch out, y’know?” 

 

Steve’s not looking at how Bucky’s shirt is stretching. Nope. (Maybe just a little.) 

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, a little more fervently than he means to. Sure, he likes having his own room, but he’s not exactly creaming himself over it. Well.

 

“So,” Steve starts, because Bucky’s mouth is busy eating a big wedge of Brie on a cracker, “what are you up to now that you’re not vaulting into the public’s hearts anymore?” 

 

Bucky ducks his head at that sideways compliment, and it’s so adorable Steve wants to make a noise akin to a pleased kitten. 

 

Bucky considers, still working on the Brie. “Do a lot of reading. Gaming. A little coaching of some of the junior boys.” He pauses, then swallows, shifting around a little like he’s getting full. “Not to mention helping out the next world vault champion.” He gives Steve a knowing look from underneath his eyelashes. 

 

“I don’t know about that,” Steve hems, flushing at Bucky’s praise. “I haven’t even made a Worlds team yet.” 

 

“It’ll happen,” Bucky tells him sagely-- or at least as sagely as one can, with a mouth full of prosciutto and cracker-- “and it’ll be soon. You’re going to get that vault. I know it.” He finishes eating his cracker and then reaches for his beer and drains it. 

 

“You want another?” Steve motions at Bucky’s empty bottle, and Bucky nods, muffling a burp into his fist. “I’ll grab you one.” 

 

***

 

Steve’s breathing irregularly when he makes it over to the fridge. Is Bucky kind of… flirting with him? Also, holy shit, Bucky Barnes, aka one of the best vaulters of all time, thinks that he, Steve Rogers, can become world vault champion? 

 

It’s enough to make anyone hyperventilate. That and the way Bucky’s eating appetizers like it’s going out of style. 

 

Steve considers the beer selection, and then pulls out two that have a cow on the label. He’s never seen this type before, but it looks like something he thinks that Bucky would enjoy, since he’s from Wisconsin and all. 

 

Steve also snags another small plate of appetizers. He tells himself that it’s not for Bucky, but it’s a thinly veiled lie. 

 

“Hell yes!” Bucky’s eyes light up when he sees the beers, and Steve almost drops them. “Spotted Cow?! How did you know?” He makes grabby hands for the beers so that Steve gives him one before sitting back down. 

 

“Ahh,” Bucky smiles after his first long pull. “Tastes like home.” 

 

“You know this beer?” Steve takes a drink from his own-- and it  _ is  _ good, hoppy and hearty. 

 

“Yeah,” Bucky’s still grinning. “This beer is from Wisconsin. You can only buy it there. I don’t know how Tony got this, but I’m glad.” 

 

Steve surreptitiously scans the room as Bucky’s selecting his next appetizer, and catches Tony’s eye. He raises his beer slightly and Tony tips his chin in response. 

 

***

 

By his third beer-- what, he’s been training a long time, okay? He’s not used to it-- Steve’s feeling tipsy and he feels like it’s taking all of his effort to maintain any kind of chill around Bucky, who must be on his fifth beer (at least) and his umpteenth appetizer. 

 

At this point, Bucky seems slow and heavy-lidded, and  _ full _ . Steve can’t miss that, not the way that Bucky is stifling burps and hiccuping, and then patting his belly like it’s a mildly disgruntled lap dog. The party’s been winding down for a while now-- Peter’s asleep on the couch, his Team USA jacket serving him for a pillow. Tony and May disappeared upstairs quite some time ago, and Clint and Natasha not too long after. Thor and his family had made their goodbyes, and Pietro, Viz, and Scott have all been engrossed in discussion of DC Comics film adaptations for some time now. Coaches Wilson and Banner had made their adieus as well-- so even though they’re not exactly alone in the room or the house, Steve feels some sort of privacy with Bucky in their space on the couch. 

 

Enough so that-- along with the tipsiness-- he’s almost ready to do  _ something _ , to give Bucky his number or kiss him or hell, fondle his gut through his tight t-shirt. He’s just working himself up to it when Bucky’s phone makes a loud pinging noise and Bucky jumps, hand still on his belly. 

 

Bucky squints blearily at the screen. “Is that really the time?” he asks, and yawns hugely. “I need to call an Uber.” 

 

_ Spend the night here _ , Steve wants to say, but the moment seems to have passed. Bucky’s stretching-- god, that stripe of chubby flesh between his shirt and his sweatpants!-- and getting up from the couch. 

 

And then all too soon, his Uber arrives and Bucky’s out the door and gone, and all that’s left of him is a bunch of empty beer bottles and scraped-clean plates on the coffee table. 

 

Well, Steve figures, that’s not nothing. And at least they were talking-- making real conversation, laughing. Steve vows to keep this trend up, so that he can maybe just kind of sneak into Bucky’s heart. 

 

But then again, considering the way Bucky’d talked about him-- “future vault world champion”-- and all, maybe he can just vault right on in. 

 

*****


	4. Four

Things continue to go well at the gym for the next week-- there’s still this sort of slight (sexual?) tension between Steve and Bucky, and Steve’s been working harder than ever on his vault. 

 

However, the next Thursday, there’s just something kind of-- off about Bucky. Steve can’t quite put his finger on it, but Bucky seems distracted-- no white board, no pep talks today. Just a low, “10 vaults, go,” as Bucky slumps down into his chair to the side of the vaulting table. 

 

Steve feels a little distracted himself-- maybe he’s been a little too obvious about his infatuation? Maybe Bucky’s realized that Steve’s just really not his type. 

 

Steve makes his way to his starting spot on the vault runway, shaking out his arms and legs, trying to clear his head. This time, when he hits the board, he  _ knows _ it’s the sweet spot. His block is huge, and he gets the twist in the second flip around easily, spotting the landing, his feet glued together and digging down deep into the foam pit. 

 

“Yes!” Steve can’t help from letting out a little cheer. Finally-- it feels  _ right _ . It feels like he could do it in competition and stick the hell out of it. 

 

Despite Steve’s stellar vault, Bucky still seems not that into it-- so much so that Steve has to put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder to let him know that he’s standing there after he’s climbed out of the pit. 

 

Steve’s a little annoyed at first. “Did you see that, dude? It’s finally working, it’s coming together, I can  _ feel  _ it--” but then he notices the slightly glazed shine to Bucky’s eyes and the pink flush to his cheeks. 

 

“Are you okay?” he asks, and Bucky startles, taking a long moment to focus on Steve’s face. He clears his throat and it sounds painful. 

 

“I’m… fine,” he manages, and Steve tsks at Bucky before he can help himself. 

 

“You’re sick.” It’s not a question, and Steve’s not accepting evasive maneuvers as answers. 

 

Bucky shrugs, and Steve moves a little closer and rests the back of one chalky hand against Bucky’s neck. He’s burning up. 

 

“I’ll be right back,” Steve tells him, and Bucky just nods. Steve runs over to where Coach Wilson is running through floor routines with Pietro, Clint, and Tony and blurts out, “Coach Wilson. Bucky’s sick. I’ve gotta take him home.” 

 

Tony catches Steve’s eye for a microsecond and raises an eyebrow, clearly saying,  _ Take him home, huh?  _

 

Coach Wilson takes a long glance over to the vault area, where Bucky’s still slumped in his chair. “All right,” Coach Wilson says. “But be ready for practice bright and early tomorrow.” 

 

“Sure,” Steve says, willing to agree to pretty much anything if it means he can start making Bucky look less pathetic. He jogs back on over to the vault area. 

 

“I’m taking you home,” Steve tells Bucky, in a decided tone. Bucky protests, but it’s half-hearted at best. Before Steve knows it, he’s in the driver’s seat of Bucky’s red Corvette and asking Bucky for his address to plug into Google Maps. Bucky clears his throat and responds in a rasp. 

 

“Later,” Steve tells him as they’re pulling out of the OTC parking lot, “we’ll talk about this car. But for now, rest your throat.” 

 

Bucky gives him the finger, but it’s good-natured. “Gift from a sponsor,” he says, and coughs. 

 

“Resting. Throat.” Steve points a finger at him, then pulls out of the parking lot. 

 

***

 

Once they’ve arrived at Bucky’s apartment complex and Bucky has directed Steve to his assigned parking space and then listlessly unlocked the door to his apartment, a grumpy-looking grey cat gives Steve a disdainful look from the middle of the doorway. 

 

“Loki,  _ move _ ,” Bucky grunts, his voice cracking. The cat gives Steve one more wary glance and then stalks away, tail swishing. 

 

Steve gets Bucky settled at the little kitchen table and then feels his pocket buzz. 

 

A text. Clint.  _ Barnes have a lovebug?  _

 

_ Shut up _ , Steve types back quickly. 

 

Buzz.  _ Did he catch it from you?  _

 

_ Fuck off, Clint, or I’ll show Natasha pictures of that heinous orange club uniform you wore to Jr. Nationals.  _

 

_ You wouldn’t.  _

 

_ Would.  _

 

His phone mercifully stops after that last text, and Steve goes around Bucky’s tiny kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards, pursing his lips. After some searching, he ends up just grabbing a big coffee mug (printed with the logo of a craft beer from Wisconsin) and a tea bag, and moves over to the sink and fills the mug up with water. He dunks the tea bag into the water and places the mug into the microwave and setting it to heat. 

 

Bucky lets out a tiny cough. “Supposed to put the bag in after,” he says. 

 

“Oh.” Steve scratches his head. “Does it make any difference?” 

 

“Guess not.” Bucky coughs again, into his elbow, and winces. 

 

“Well,” Steve says. “I was gonna make you soup, but. Uh. You don’t seem to have much food here.” 

 

Bucky looks embarrassed. “Uh. I usually…” He coughs. “I usually just grab something when I’m out. You know.” 

 

Steve does know, and he gets a little tingling feeling just thinking about Bucky using all of that gymnastics sponsorship money to buy McDonald’s and Dairy Queen (if the receipts in Bucky’s car are anything to go by, Bucky’s a frequent customer of both). 

 

“Well,” Steve repeats. “Then, in lieu of soup, I’m going to order you some pizza. And ice cream? That’d be good for your throat, right?” 

 

Bucky nods tiredly, and Steve feels the tingle again. Bucky’s so pliable like this, so-- obedient. Maybe Steve can push a little bit. Just to see. It can’t hurt anything, right? Sick or no, Bucky can always say no. 

 

Except that he doesn’t. 

 

Go take a quick shower. Put on some clean sweats. Drink this tea. Lie down on the couch.

 

Bucky follows all of Steve’s instructions flawlessly and without complaint. It makes Steve wonder what else he could get Bucky to do, and how easily-- but for now, that’s a thought for another time. 

 

Steve’s phone buzzes, and he puts it to his ear while walking to the front door. He grabs the grubhub delivery and then gets a spoon from the kitchen drawer, balancing the tub of Ben & Jerry’s on top of the pizza box. 

 

Bucky’s melding with the couch cushions, but he perks up a little when Steve comes back into the living room. 

 

Steve settles onto the couch next to Bucky, placing the pizza and ice cream on the coffee table. 

 

“You want to watch a movie or something?” Steve asks, and Bucky smiles at him tiredly. 

 

“Sure. I’ll probably fall asleep, so you can pick.” 

 

Steve busies himself finding the remote and getting the movie started. Once he’s got everything all queued up, he’s about to press play when Bucky winces. He looks at Steve a little guiltily. He’d been reaching for the pizza box with his left hand. 

 

“You okay?” Steve wants to put his hands on Bucky, pat him down like he’s a TSA-themed stripper. 

 

Bucky grimaces. “Yeah. Just-- achy. Happens when I get sick; I can feel all of the old injuries, y’know? And the arm most of all.” 

 

Steve considers for a half a second, then goes for it. “Here,” he says. “Let me.” And he takes a piece of pizza out of the box and holds it up to Bucky’s mouth. 

 

*** 

 

Midway through Bucky’s second piece of hand-fed (!!- and yes, Steve’s brain is exploding about that, but he’s going to have to tamp it down until later) pizza, Steve remembers the quick stop they’d made at Walgreens and he jumps up to go retrieve the plastic bag. 

 

As Steve steps back into the living room, Loki the cat watches Steve silently from his perch on the back of the couch before hopping down and settling himself in Bucky’s lap, purring and kneading Bucky’s belly. Steve has never wanted anything more than to be that cat. 

 

“Here,” Steve says. “Your cough medicine.” He holds out the Walgreens bag and Bucky takes it from him.  

 

“Thanks,” he says, and gives a weak smile as Loki realizes that Bucky’s interest is no longer focused on petting and jumps down, stalking away. Bucky then measures out a dosage of the m medicine and throws it back like a shot. “Awful,” he grimaces afterward. “Think I might need a pizza chaser.” He pauses significantly, then says softly, “Want to help me out?” 

 

Steve almost doesn’t get it, but when he does, he’s sitting down faster than he ever has before, and reopening the pizza box with slightly shaking hands. He lifts the partially eaten slice to Bucky’s mouth, and when Bucky ‘mmms’ around the mouthful, Steve’s already half hard, resisting the urge to writhe in his seat. 

 

“Tastes so good,” Bucky says, and even though Steve knows it’s from illness, Bucky’s voice is low like he’s fucked out, like he’s let Steve open him up and is just completely spent. 

 

“It-- it’s okay on your throat?” Steve stutters a bit, because he’s so turned on that he’s having a lot of trouble focusing. 

 

Bucky smiles around his next mouthful. “Yeah,” he says, and swallows, opening his mouth for more. 

 

Steve’s not sure what the fuck is going on here, but he’s also sure that he’s not stopping for anything. He reaches for the next slice, and Bucky pauses to take a swig of lukewarm tea. Then he moves back into position and taps Steve gently on the wrist when Steve doesn’t go for the next piece of pizza. 

 

“Ready,” Bucky tells him, and Steve feels like today he just might find out if he can come untouched. 

 

***

 

They make it through most of the pizza before Bucky makes a little grimace and holds his hand up to Steve. 

 

“Pause,” he says, which-- interesting. That would seem to mean that he doesn’t want to stop, not yet. 

 

Bucky rearranges himself back on the couch cushions, moving around several times, looking mildly frustrated. His cheeks are still flushed, both from illness and from eating, and it makes Steve want to curl around Bucky’s neck and tend to his every need with an obsequiousness that he’s never felt before. Usually, Steve likes being the boss-- in bed or out. And here, it’s weird, but he both wants to be in charge and to take care of Bucky, jump up to tend to his every need. 

 

“Need a blanket,” Bucky grunts finally, once he’s propped up on the throw pillows. “Cold.” 

 

Steve flips the pizza box (two slices remaining) closed, considering. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll get you a blanket. But then ice cream.” 

 

“I just said I was cold,” Bucky protests, but weakly. Steve doesn’t think that’s all due to his sore throat. 

 

Steve stands up. “That’s the fever talking,” he says, bossily. “Ice cream will do you good, trust me.” He doesn’t say anything about the good that it’ll do  _ him _ , but Steve thinks that some things are likely best kept to oneself. 

 

“Kay,” Bucky says finally, and Steve surveys him with a critical eye. 

 

“Good boy,” he says. “Now get comfy because I’ll be right back with your blanket.” 

 

***

 

Steve’s heart is still pounding loudly in his ears when he returns to the living room with a fuzzy red blanket from the hall closet. 

 

When he comes back into the room, Bucky already has the Ben & Jerry’s container open and is swallowing what looks like a large mouthful.

 

Steve pauses. “What’s this?” he asks finally, and Bucky finishes swallowing guiltily. 

 

“Couldn’t wait,” he says, as if this is some kind of explanation. 

 

“... I see.” Steve drapes the blanket over Bucky’s lap and legs, and then tugs the spoon out of Bucky’s unresisting hand. “Now let me.” 

 

Bucky seems to relax even further back into his pillows, and Steve ends up looking at the TV screen for a little bit so that he can stop staring at Bucky so obviously. Steve blinks at the TV-- he has no idea what movie they’re ostensibly watching, even though he was the one who picked it. 

 

Bucky interrupts Steve’s attempt to figure out what movie it actually is by gently poking Steve with his blanketed foot. 

 

“Ready,” he says, and Steve takes up the spoon. 

 

***

 

“Mmm,” Bucky says. 

 

“That’s so good,” Bucky says. Once he has a small coughing fit, and Steve pats him on the shoulder. 

 

“You doing okay?” Steve asks. 

 

“Ice cream helps,” Bucky tells him, and then burps. “Sorry,” he says, cheeks pinkening even more. His right hand burrows under the blanket, presumably to soothe his tummy, which has to be achingly full by now. He stifles a couple more belches and then gives Steve a little smile. 

 

“More?” he asks. 

 

“More,” Steve tells him firmly. And there is more. There’s more and more until Steve’s scraping the carton clean, and Bucky’s forehead has a little sheen of sweat on it. 

 

***

 

“Belly rub?” Steve asks, but in a tone that suggests that it’s more than just a suggestion. Bucky scoots up a teensy bit on the pillows, but it’s clear that he’s too full, too lazy, too sick, too--  _ everything _ for much movement. 

 

Bucky peels the blanket down a little, and then pulls his t-shirt up. His belly is taut and round, and it’s hot to the touch. Steve gives it a rub in a large, circular motion, and then pokes Bucky just above the bellybutton to gauge what kind of give his belly has. There’s not a lot, and when Steve presses harder as an experiment, Bucky jolts a bit and lets out a low burp, then winces. 

 

“Hurts my throat,” he explains, and Steve takes his hand off of Bucky’s belly for a moment to grab the mug of tea. 

 

“Drink,” Steve commands, and Bucky does, handing the mug back to Steve with an almost shy look, blinking slowly at him with those fluttery, girlish eyelashes. 

 

“Better?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods, in a way that makes Steve think that Bucky would nod no matter what, just to please Steve, and a little candle flame licks through Steve’s chest like a tiny forest fire in the dendralia of his heartstrings. 

 

“Okay then,” Steve says, hand making lazy circles again. “You’ve been very good, but now I think it’s time for you to take a nap. Digest, if nothing else.” He says it casually, but doesn’t miss the way Bucky’s cheeks flush a little deeper, and Bucky’s hand dips underneath the blanket to pat his tummy again. 

 

“Okay,” Bucky says, and yawns with a little wince, his sore throat coming to prominence again now that the focus is off of his belly. “Kinda tired.” 

 

***

 

Steve putters around Bucky’s kitchen while Bucky sleeps, snoring a little, curled up on his side, the blanket tangled around him. The cat watches him from atop the kitchen table, and Steve puts a hand out for him to sniff. Loki considers for a long moment, then rubs his cheek against Steve’s hand. Steve feels a warm pleasure at this-- the cat approves of him, it seems. 

 

Judging by how Bucky seems to be feeling today, Steve guesses that he’ll still be out of commission tomorrow, and likely for the rest of the weekend, too. Steve runs a hand through his hair, considering. He has a competition coming up next month, so this weekend marks the start of weekend practices. Just his luck that now that he actually has something to do (or some _ one _ ), he’ll be in the gym as usual, bathing in blood, sweat, and tears (and chalk, let’s be honest). 

 

Steve has a few ideas about the care and feeding of one former vault champion this weekend, and it should only take him until Bucky wakes up to put his plans into motion. He pats the cat one more time and smiles, pulling out his phone. 

 

“Okay,” he tells Loki. “Let’s get your dad all taken care of.” 

 

“Mrow,” says Loki, and Steve takes that for a sign of approval. 

  
*****


	5. Chapter 5

Steve stays with Bucky until after suppertime that Thursday night. He gives Bucky a bowl of soup and some buttered bread from a Panera delivery, and then he calls an Uber and goes back to the house. 

 

Could he have pushed it more? Sure. Did he want to? Fuck yes. Did the sight of Bucky, glutted and asleep on the couch, drive him crazy? Sure did. But there was still a line he didn’t want to cross. A chalk line, easily wiped away if necessary, but not without getting a little messy. Bucky is important to Steve-- even though they haven’t known each other that long, that much is already true. And he doesn’t want to fuck this up. 

 

So instead of staying, instead of getting Bucky another ridiculously calorific meal, Steve abstemiously orders Bucky chicken noodle and goes back home. 

 

***

 

“I have to get ready for practice tomorrow,” Steve tells Bucky, who’s sitting up now, blinking sleepily, rubbing his eyes. “There’s orange juice in the fridge-- make sure you have some, okay?” 

 

“Okay.” Bucky nods, and Steve turns to go, but Bucky catches his wrist. 

 

“Hey,” Bucky says, voice still raspy. “Thanks for-- all this.” He makes a gesture at the coffee table and couch, as if to signify the pizza and ice cream that disappeared into his stomach mere hours ago. 

 

“My pleasure,” Steve says, and that’s easy to say, if a little truth-bending in the scale of the pleasure taken-- Steve’s not going to lie to himself and say he’s not going to go home and get in the shower and jerk it to the mental replay of Bucky’s mouth grazing his fingers and the taut flesh of Bucky’s gut underneath his palm. 

 

“Feel better,” Steve says, and that’s also easy to say. “Rest.” He works hard to not let any other words fall from his mouth; subtle commands that he thinks Bucky would adhere to, especially as he is now, soft and sleepy and more than a little out of it. 

 

“I’ll see you later,” Steve tells Bucky, and Bucky’s sweet, heavy-lidded smile-- that’s what really gets Steve over the edge later on in the shower.

 

***

 

He doesn’t manage to sneak back into the house unscathed: the rest of the guys are all sitting around the kitchen and living room eating supper when he arrives. 

 

“How’s Bucky doing?” Clint asks, not even trying to hide a sly grin. 

 

“Get a little T.L.C.?” Tony asks, distinctly pronouncing each letter. 

 

The blood rushing to his face is a feeling Steve’s getting used to. 

 

“Bucky’s doing fine,” he says, looking down at the countertop. “Should be better by Monday.” 

 

“And did you, ah, take good care of him?” Tony asks, and Steve doesn’t even have to look at Clint to know he’s sniggering. 

 

“Shut it,” Steve says to Clint in a low tone, “Or I will replace your baking flour with chalk. Don’t think I won’t.” 

 

“Oooh,” Pietro says, joining in. “Rogers is touchy.” He draws out the last vowel as he plucks a grape from the bunch in the fruit bowl on the counter. 

 

“Leave him be, fellas,” Tony says, as if he wasn’t the one instigating. “Let Rogers eat his dinner in peace. We’ll get the scoop later.” 

 

And they leave Steve to get his dinner out of the fridge and heat it up. Pietro joins Viz on the couch for some video games, while Tony and Clint disappear to their own rooms. Rhodey is sitting on the loveseat reading a book and taking notes in the margins. 

 

Steve contemplates while watching his plate of grilled chicken and veggies rotate through the microwave window, and then decisively pulls his phone out of his pocket. 

 

_ Did you drink your orange juice yet?  _ He types, then presses send before he can have second thoughts. 

 

There isn’t an immediate response, so Steve finishes eating and takes a shower, plugging his phone into the charger beside his bed. 

 

When he gets out of the shower and checks his phone, he sees that he has three new messages. One is from Natasha, but two are from Bucky Barnes. 

 

Steve swipes up, finger shaking slightly. One of the messages is a picture. Bucky’s hand splayed on his tightly t-shirted belly. A tub of ice cream in the foreground with a spoon sticking out of it. 

 

_ Good orange juice _ , the text says.  _ Feels nice on my throat. ;)  _

 

Oh. My. God. 

 

***

 

Steve can hardly concentrate all through the morning’s practice: from rings to pommels to tumbling, he’s distracted. Coach Banner has him, Clint, and Tony running through their floor passes onto soft landings in order to keep their ankles and knees happy until competition. 

 

“Steve!” Coach Banner calls, in a louder voice than Steve normally hears him use. “What’s with the sloppy form on the full-in? That’s your last pass, bro. Don’t let it get messy.” 

 

Steve breathes hard. “Sorry, Bruce.” He shakes his head a little, jumps up and down on his toes. He really wants to check his phone. It’s been burning a hole in his gym bag since rings. 

 

“Steve!” Coach Banner calls again. “What’s with the helicopter legs on the triple?”

 

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles. 

 

After the next pass, Coach Banner tells Steve to go take a break and clear his head. “Now is not the time to let the form degrade,” Coach Banner says seriously. “Only a month out from competition, Steve. Now is the time to focus on those details. Okay?” 

 

Steve had nodded, but his heart rate had been climbing in anticipation. He forces himself to walk slowly over to the locker room and casually unzip the outer pocket of his gym bag. 

 

**2 new text messages**

 

Steve swallows, then swipes up. 

 

***

 

The first message is a picture of Bucky’s fridge, opened to show the neatly packaged and labeled food that Steve had carefully procured and arranged. 

 

The second message says,  _ Found all the orange juice. Thanks. Being sick sure makes a guy thirsty! ;)  _

Steve’s heart almost stops in his chest. He has to set the phone facedown on the locker room bench for a minute and just concentrate on breathing. He picks it back up with shaky hands and rereads the text, staring at the picture. 

 

There’s no doubt now, right? That  _ is  _ a winky face emoji, is it not? Steve squints more closely at the screen. If he’s not mistaken, the containers for “Saturday- breakfast” and “Saturday- lunch” are both missing from the fridge ensemble. 

 

Steve thinks, heart still pounding, then types back:  _ Sometimes orange juice can be frozen, too. Feels good on a sore throat.  _

 

He adds a winky face emoji of his own and presses send, then tosses his phone into his bag without looking. He’s two steps out of the locker room before he can’t stand it and he’s rushing back and checking to see if Bucky is typing. 

 

_ Already checked that _ , Bucky types. His dots continue for a long moment, and then a new picture message appears. Bucky’s legs straight out in front of him, propped up on the coffee table, the cat stretched out, snoozing on his shins. Bucky’s hand holding a half-eaten tub of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked, the carton pressing slightly against the convexity of his tummy. 

 

Steve taps out a response before he can stop himself. He types it out and sends it, then zips his gym bag back up with the phone inside. He goes back out to practice, but the whole time, all that keeps running through his head is:  _ Good boy _ . 

 

***

 

Steve gets through parallel bars and high bar, focusing hard on the small details-- the little pictures that make up the whole image. 

 

“Good, Steve,” Coach Wilson says as Steve sticks the dismount on his final high bar routine for the day. “Now head on over to vault with Bruce and let’s see how that Barnes is coming along.” 

 

At the mention of Bucky’s last name, Steve’s breath solidifies in his chest, an icy feeling that he expects feels kind of like a guy might feel after he’s inhaled a whole pint of ice cream in one sitting. He wonders if Bucky’s finished that first carton yet. 

 

“Let’s go, Rogers!” Coach Banner is waiting for him down by the vaulting area. “Chop chop!” He claps his hands, and Steve breaks into a little jog. He warms up by jogging up and down the runway, and then marks out his starting spot. 

 

“Let’s see it into the pit first, then let’s see if we can throw a mat in today,” Coach Banner instructs, and Steve nods. He vows to focus all of his sexual energy into the best goddamn vault he can. There’s no reason why he can’t have both Bucky  _ and _ a world title; but in order to obtain both, he can’t lose focus. 

 

“Okay,” Steve calls to Coach Banner. “I’m going for it.” And he focuses, he runs, he blocks, twists, and lands perfectly. 

 

Coach Banner lets out a little whoop. “That’s what I’m talking about, Steve.” He claps Steve on the shoulder after Steve climbs out of the pit. “Good for you for channeling that energy and getting past your mistakes from earlier. That’s just what we want.” 

 

“Thanks,” Steve says, readjusting his wrist supports. “You want me to throw a mat in, then?” 

 

“One more into the pit, and if it looks as good as this last one, then yeah.” Coach Banner claps his hands again, and Steve heads back down the runway. 

 

***

 

The next vault is just as good. So is the next, and even onto the mat. The Barnes has a blind landing, which is part of what makes it so incredibly difficult, but today Steve is just right on it. 

 

“Let’s throw another mat in there,” Coach Banner says. “I’m impressed, Steve. This is looking really good.” 

 

By the end of the vault rotation, Steve is throwing the Barnes onto three mats in the foam pit; almost at competition height. Since the pit is so much lower than a mat would be in competition, a gymnast has to add mats in in order to be ready to do the vault onto a hard surface in competition. 

 

Coach Banner takes a video of Steve doing the Barnes and calls Coach Wilson over to watch the replay in slow motion. 

 

Coach Wilson, a man who doesn’t overstate his praise or mince his words, says, “Good work, Steve. I think that should be ready in time for Worlds, don’t you?” 

 

Steve’s heart leaps in his chest, and this time, it has nothing to do with Bucky-- and everything to do with the Barnes. 

 

Coach Wilson is not one to joke about making Worlds teams-- a former national champion himself, he’d narrowly missed out on the Olympics and had only gleaned an alternate spot on a subsequent year’s Worlds team-- something the roommates have discussed at length as being something Coach Wilson likely has never truly gotten over. 

 

“Now go hit the showers, Steve; you’ve earned it.” Coach Wilson gives him a smile, and Steve can’t help grinning back. 

 

***

 

Steve’s alone in the locker room, since the rest of the team is still finishing up, so he doesn’t feel embarrassed about giving his own reflection in the mirror an ear-splitting smile. He also doesn’t hesitate in forwarding the video of his vault on to Bucky, along with a message that says,  _ Made some good progress today. How’re you feeling?  _

 

He gets in the shower without waiting for a response, wanting to clean up quickly and head home… or maybe take an Uber over to Bucky’s place. 

 

Bucky’s reply is waiting for him, and Steve’s spikes of wet hair drip onto his phone screen in his anticipation. He hurriedly wipes the phone off on his towel and reads:  _ Full.  _

 

And then,  _ Still a little achy and feverish, but feeling a lot better. The orange juice helped a lot. :)  _

 

Steve taps his phone on his chin, thinking, then types,  _ Want some company tonight? I finished practice early.  _

 

Bucky’s response is nearly instantaneous.  _ Door’s open. Come on over.  _

  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piked full-in: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t110n8vgQxs (This montage has terrible music but it's a good showing of the skill!) 
> 
> Also: find me on tumblr at superstringtheory.tumblr.com! :)


	6. Chapter 6

Steve’s hair is still damp when he gets to Bucky’s house and nervously smooths his USA Gymnastics sweatshirt as he pauses at the entrance to Bucky’s building, waiting for Bucky to buzz him in. 

 

He’s still nervous as he rides the elevator up, and catches himself picking at an old rip on his palm as he waits to work up the nerve to open Bucky’s door. 

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out to see what it says. 

 

_ You can come in _ , Bucky’s text reads.  _ Door really is open. _

 

Steve blushes, and gives a perfunctory knock before opening the door and going inside. He’s toeing off his sneakers when Bucky’s voice says, “Hey.” 

 

He still sounds hoarse and a little bit unwell, but not out of it like he was yesterday. 

 

“Sorry if that was creepy,” Bucky says as Steve comes into the living room, “but I kinda know how long it takes to get from the elevator to here and…” He pauses to take a drink from what looks like a mug of tea. “... and also I didn’t wanna get up.” 

 

“Didn’t wanna get up, huh?” Steve’s mouth is braver than his head, so he lets it have the run of this conversation, which feels taut, like holding a strength position on rings. One false move, and you’re falling, swinging out of control, and being slammed with deductions. 

 

“Nah,” Bucky says, and coughs a little into his elbow. “Too full.” 

 

“Too full, huh?” Steve sits down on the couch. Not right next to Bucky, but not exactly at the opposite end, either. 

 

“Yup.” Bucky takes another drink of tea and then sets the mug down on the coffee table, giving Steve a serious look. “You left me a whole fucking lot of food, you know.” 

 

“I do.” Steve pauses momentarily. “Well. Did you eat it all?” 

 

Bucky laughs, which turns into a bit of a cough. “Why don’t you go and see.” He rests his hands on top of his belly, looking at Steve like this is a challenge. 

 

“I will.” Steve gets up before he can second guess this, and heads into the kitchen. He opens the fridge like this means nothing to him, like this is a casual thing. But then-- he gapes. All of Saturday’s meal boxes and bags are gone, and so is Sunday’s breakfast. He opens the freezer to peer in, and sure enough, two of the Ben & Jerry’s tubs are missing, too. Hot damn. 

 

“Hey,” Bucky calls from the living room, hearing the freezer door snick shut, “Wanna grab me some ice cream?” His voice cracks a little, but Steve has no trouble hearing him. 

 

“You sure? I thought you were full,” Steve calls back, in a tone that Steve’s not used to hearing come from his own mouth. 

 

“Not too full for ice cream,” Bucky calls. Steve’s already finding a spoon. 

 

“Mm,” Bucky murmurs as Steve settles back down on the couch, ice cream tucked in his elbow. “Phish Food.” He makes a move for the carton, but Steve pulls back. 

 

“Ah ah ah, Buck”-- and what a tingle at using Bucky’s nickname, at the camaraderie and the sexual current running between them-- “Let me.” 

 

Steve prises the carton open and scoops up a big spoonful, rich with caramel and marshmallow and chocolate. Bucky opens his mouth obediently, already acting the good boy. 

 

“Good,” Steve murmurs as Bucky swallows, and then licks the spoon clean. “Good, Buck.” He readies another spoonful, and Bucky opens his mouth again. 

 

Steve feeds Bucky at least half of the pint like that, showering Bucky with praise and being careful, so careful-- not to push this too far. But then he accidentally drips ice cream on Bucky’s shirt, and Bucky looks down at the drip, moving slowly down the curve of his belly-- but then he looks at Steve, as if asking him what to do. 

 

“Lick it up,” Steve instructs, and the voice is kind of like the voice he uses when he gives tips to the junior national team boys, or helps out with a rec class. A coach voice. But with something a little-- extra. 

 

Bucky licks, and Steve’s hard as a diamond. 

 

“More?” Bucky asks, and he doesn’t just look stuffed full, he  _ sounds _ it, too, like he’s struggling a little for breath. 

 

“More,” Steve says, and then: “Just a little more, honey, and then I’m going to take good care of you, okay?” 

 

Bucky blinks at him from behind long eyelashes, muffles a little cough into his wrist. “Okay.” 

 

***

 

Three more big bites, and Steve can see that Bucky’s struggling, his breath a little wheezy. 

 

“You’re almost done, honey,” Steve tells him, and Bucky nods. “But first I’m going to help you out a little, okay?” 

 

Bucky nods again, leaning his head back against the top of the couch. Steve presses a cool hand to his sweaty forehead, and Bucky’s still a little warm, but this time Steve suspects it’s more to do with all he’s eaten today. Those neatly labeled takeout bags from Burger King and McDonald’s, the container from Chipotle. The giant calzone from the local pizzeria, and that’s not to mention the Ben & Jerry’s. 

 

Steve peels Bucky’s t-shirt up, and Bucky’s belly spills forward of its own accord, round and beautiful in the dim light of something paused on the TV screen. Steve puts his hand on its apex, and Bucky lets out a little moan. 

 

“So full,” he says, and hiccups. “Ugh.” 

 

“Shh, Buck,” Steve says. “I’m going to help.” He runs his hands gently over and around Bucky’s belly, soothing it when Bucky hiccups again, giving small but firm rubs in concentric circles. 

 

Steve runs one hand all around the dome of Bucky’s gut, pauses at the bottom of it and holds it up, feeling its weight. That same hand skims along the waistband of Bucky’s sweats and boxer briefs, tugging them down a little so they aren’t putting undue pressure on Bucky’s sore belly. 

 

“Feels good,” Bucky tells Steve softly. “Feels good when you touch me.” He lets out a little burp, and Steve pats his belly with affection. 

 

“You’re so gorgeous,” Steve says in a near-whisper. “So gorgeous like this, Bucky.” He runs his hand all over Bucky’s gut again, and god, they haven’t even  _ kissed _ yet, but here Steve is, hand feeding Bucky ice cream and basically rutting up against him. And Bucky likes it, Steve can tell. His pupils are blown with arousal and if Steve’s not mistaken, his dick is hard underneath the swell of his belly. 

 

“Can I?” Steve asks, fingers working at the waistband of Bucky’s sweats again. 

 

“Sure,” Bucky pants. “Please, please, Steve--” 

 

Steve cuts him off. “But only if you keep feeding yourself.” 

 

“Okay, okay, sure,” Bucky babbles, and by then Steve’s swiftly pulling the sweats and boxer briefs down and then off, and then Bucky’s naked from the waist down, his shirt still rucked up over his swollen tummy. 

 

Steve presses a kiss to said tummy, then murmurs, “This is all right?” from between Bucky’s thighs. 

 

“Yes, yes, God yes,” Bucky pants, and Steve takes him into his mouth for a little suck, swirling his tongue around the head of Bucky’s cock before he disengages and says, “Keep eating, honey, and I’ll keep going.” 

 

“Yes,” Bucky says fervently, and clears his throat before grabbing the spoon. 

 

***

 

Steve licks him up and swallows him down, using his hands on Bucky’s thick thighs, on his stuffed gut, on the base of his cock. He can feel the vibration as Bucky groans, from fullness or arousal or both, and Steve smiles with his mouth full. 

 

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to come, spitting out a swath of blasphemies and expletives. Steve swallows all Bucky has to give, and then gives his inner thighs a little squeeze and the dome of his belly a peck of a kiss. 

 

Steve’s rock-hard in his own sweats, but he wants to finish taking care of Bucky first. 

 

“Good job, baby,” he says, and then Bucky’s pulling him in for a kiss, moaning a little bit as Steve’s jostled up against his tender gut. 

 

“Careful, pal,” Bucky says as he draws back. “Stomach hurts.” 

 

“I know, baby, I know,” Steve tells him. “You did such a good job for me, you were so good.” He kisses Bucky’s belly again, running his hand over and over the top of it, then presses a long kiss to Bucky’s forehead. 

 

Bucky lays back for a few minutes and just lets Steve rub him down. He’s the most beautiful thing Steve’s ever seen; lazy and glutted, heavy-lidded and breathing slowly, letting out a few shallow hiccups as Steve runs his hand over the top of his belly. 

 

“You’re good at that,” Bucky murmurs, eyes shut. Steve’s not sure whether he means belly rubs or blowjobs, but he’ll take the compliment either way. 

 

“Wanna take care of you,” Bucky says next, but then he sits up a little and winces. 

 

“Shh,” Steve tells him. “I’ve got me. You just lay back and rest. You’re still recovering, remember?” 

 

Bucky grins, and Steve’s wrong-- that wicked smile, the little crinkles around Bucky’s grey eyes--  _ that  _ is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Yeah,” he says, a little sassy now, “That’s right. But I’ve been really hitting the orange juice.” 

 

Steve chuckles, and slides his own sweats down, steps out of them quickly to show Bucky that he’s naked underneath, that he’s been bare under there this whole time. 

 

Bucky takes a quick inhale of breath and coughs, and Steve pauses to rub his shoulder through it. 

 

“Keep going,” Bucky tells him. “ _ Please _ .” 

 

Steve pulls his sweatshirt off in one fluid motion, and then carefully moves Bucky like a rag doll, arranges him so that Steve can kneel between his legs on the couch, so that Steve can jack off onto Bucky’s gut. 

 

Steve comes quickly, quads burning from holding this position, one hand on his cock and the other on Bucky. He works himself through the orgasm, and then he feels Bucky’s hands on his thighs, giving them a gentle squeeze. 

 

“You’re gorgeous,” Bucky whispers, and Steve, still in that post-coital haze, lets his smile overtake his face. 

 

“Lemme help you get cleaned up,” Steve says, looking at the mess he’s made on Bucky’s skin, pooling in the deep indent of his belly button but threatening to drip onto the couch. “Be right back.” 

 

He jogs naked to the kitchen, snagging a dish towel from where it’s hanging off the handle of the fridge. He brings it back to the living room, almost tripping over the cat on his way. 

 

“I think your cat wants to kill me, or at least my gymnastics career,” he tells Bucky as he gently wipes up his belly. 

 

Bucky stretches, giving a little yawn. “Yeah, well, he doesn’t like to share.” 

 

“Too bad,” Steve says. “I think he’ll have to get used to it.” 

 

***

 

Steve doesn’t spend the night that first time. He has to get home and go to sleep because he has practice again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. And no matter how much he likes Bucky-- likes feeding him, likes snuggling up next to him and watching TV, likes hearing his sardonic commentary on the current political state-- he can’t forget his endgame. He can’t let this side mission overtake the main objective, no matter how much he wants to. And that means waiting a little bit, waiting until after this competition, waiting to tell people about this new thing they have going on. 

 

It’s driving him crazy.  _ Bucky _ is driving him crazy. 

 

Steve’s been an absolute machine in the gym, his execution so good that even Viz-- resident technical prodigy-- is impressed. He hits routine after routine, set after set, and he attacks his conditioning like he’s never done before. He’s focused like a laser beam on that upcoming weekend like it’s the Olympic Trials or something, and not just a competition before the competition to select the next Worlds team. 

 

Only Bucky knows that a big part of Steve’s newfound focus has to do with him. 

 

Only Bucky, who seems to revel in being a sassy little brat; an absolute fucking tease. 

 

Bucky, who leans back in his chair next to the vault runway, polishing off a footlong sub and dipping his hand into a family-size bag of chips. 

 

“No eating in the gym,” Steve hisses as he comes past Bucky on his way back down the runway after a vault. 

 

“What’re you gonna do about it?” Bucky asks, and crunches another chip. 

 

Steve is going to end up self-immolating, but it won’t be for religious reasons. 

 

***

 

“Hey,” Bucky says on the day before they leave for the meet, “Steve. You’ve got this, you know? You’re gonna be phenomenal.” 

 

Steve didn’t think it was possible to want something in Bucky’s mouth more than a bite of ice cream or his cock, but he thinks that these casual words of praise might just be it. 

 

“Can you say that again?” Steve asks, knowing that there’s a goofy smile on his face and not giving one flying fuck about it. 

 

“You’re gonna be phenomenal,” Bucky repeats, and when everything goes to shit, that’s what Steve remembers. 

 

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr at superstringtheory.tumblr.com! I am always happy to talk about chubby Bucky, Seb, or gymnastics. :)


	7. Chapter 7

_ It’s his own fault, 100%, is what Steve keeps telling himself as he’s lying there on the mat, stunned. That’s the worst part of it. He has no one to blame but himself, unless he wants to start getting technical and blaming everyone involved, like a litigation-happy lawyer-- his mom for enrolling him in gymnastics at age 4, the inventor of the vaulting table, the maker of the mats…  _

 

_ Yeah, it’s really no one’s fault but his own.  _

 

***

 

The competition begins, and Steve is on fire. He starts off on parallel bars: hit. Then high bar: just a small step on his dismount. Floor: a quick step out of bounds on his second tumbling pass. Pommels: usable. Rings: hit. Then vault, saved for last. 

 

The warm-up goes well, and Steve’s  _ nailing _ the Dragulescu with power to spare. 

 

“Good, Steve, but rein it in a little, we want the stick,” Coach Banner reminds him. Steve nods to himself, but has an idea. He’s been hitting the Barnes so well in practice, and today his Dragulescu is over-powered… so why not go for the extra half-twist and the difficulty bonus? Sure, he knows that Coaches Wilson and Banner likely would not approve, but he just feels  _ on _ today. 

 

Steve hazards a glance at where Bucky’s sitting in the stands-- Steve had sent him off, armed with a $20 bill and instructions to go to the concession stand whenever he wants. He’d offered to rotate along with Steve during the competition, to keep him company, but Steve had shaken his head no, preferring to keep the competition the way he normally does. 

 

Bucky catches Steve’s glance and gives him a big thumbs up. He’s crunching on what looks like one of those tacos made out of meat and cheese poured into a bag of Fritos, and he looks happy. Steve lets that make his decision: he’s throwing the Barnes. 

 

***

 

“It could’ve been worse,” Steve manages, quietly, after he can’t bear the silence any longer. The doctor has left and he and Coach Wilson are alone-- or at least as alone as two people can be when all that surrounds them from the ruckus of an ER is a couple of mint-green shower curtains.  

 

“Sure,” Coach Wilson says, fixing Steve with a gaze like he’s a particularly nice specimen of butterfly and Coach Wilson’s going to tack him to a board, “Sure, it could’ve been worse. But it also could’ve been avoided altogether if you weren’t such a colossal idiot.” 

 

Coach Wilson doesn’t overemphasize any of his words, and somehow that makes it worse. All of it’s in the sameblow tone, such that Steve almost has to lean over a little from the ER bed in order to hear him. 

 

“I don’t even know what you were thinking,” Coach Wilson says. “But get this, Rogers: you’re going to have plenty of alone time during your rehab on the exercise bike, so I hope you utilize that time to reflect on your decisions.” 

 

“Okay, Coach.” Steve looks down at his lap, markedly not looking at his braced left ankle. “I’m sorry, by the way.” He says this part even more quietly, and Coach Rogers pauses for a moment, then squeezes Steve’s shoulder briefly. 

 

“I get it, Rogers. I do. You’re a talented gymnast, and I know that you will be ready for the Barnes soon-- or at least you were on track for it. And you might be again, if you work hard and get your head on straight.” Coach Wilson pauses, as if considering whether or not to say the next part. “But I think you have someone else you have to apologize to. You know, someone whose vault you threw without being ready for it?” 

 

Steve hadn’t even thought of that part yet. 

 

… Oh. Oh, shit.

 

***

 

Coach Wilson retrieves Steve’s phone for him at his request and then tactfully steps outside of the curtain. Steve clears his throat and thumbs through the notifications on his phone, ignoring them all and simply finding Bucky’s contact information and pressing the green call button. 

 

“Steve? Are you okay?” Bucky answers on the second ring. 

 

“Bucky? Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

 

“What about your leg.” Bucky almost growls, and Steve loves that tone on him, loves how wanton it makes him sound, but-- now is really not the time. 

 

“It’s okay, it’s all right,” Steve reassures. “Just a bad sprain. Nothing broken, and I should only be out for a few weeks.” 

 

“A few weeks, huh.” Bucky chuckles a little, but it’s nothing like the happy sound Steve has heard from him before. “A few weeks where we just can stay home and get fat together. Sounds great.” Except that Bucky’s tone makes it sound anything but.

 

“Uh--” Steve’s not sure what to say, he’s scrambling for platitudes, for apologies, even for a fucking  _ word _ . 

 

“What the fuck were you thinking, Steve, throwing that vault before it was ready? It has the highest rating in the Code for a  _ reason _ . Only two people have ever competed it successfully for a  _ reason _ . I don’t even know what to say to you.” 

 

“... I’m sorry,” Steve chokes out finally, and Bucky sighs on the other end of the line. 

 

“I know you are, pal. But-- I just need a little break, okay?” 

 

Steve hears himself say okay, hears himself say goodbye, watches himself press “end” like he’s watching someone else. 

 

A little break. 

 

They’d been so close, Steve could feel it. Bucky was almost like his  _ boyfriend _ or something. And now Steve’s gone and thrown a vault in it. 

 

It’s like Steve can see the score flashing now: a perfect 10.0 in “relationship failure,” Rogers, Steve. Fuck. 

 

***

 

Steve spends the next week pedaling on the exercise bike in isolation in the back of the gym-- “no headphones, no friends, no iPhone,” Coach Wilson had said, “Just Steve, and ‘why I threw that vault I wasn’t ready for’”. 

 

Steve takes his punishment without complaint, sits and pedals and plays Bucky’s words over and over in his head.  _ A little break _ . 

 

He watches his teammates work out, does a little conditioning with them, then goes back to pedaling. He doesn’t even look at his phone until practice is over-- most of the people he normally talks to are here, anyway-- and tries not to let his sunken heart drag him down with it when there are no messages from Bucky. 

 

Midway through the second week of conditioning and pedaling, he comes up with the perfect way to apologize to Bucky. His first frantic apology texts had gone un-responded to, so he figures that a bigger gesture may be needed. And judging by the size of his current love interest and all of his jack-off material, Steve’s certainly fine with bigger.

 

***

 

“Do you do deliveries?” Steve’s a little out of breath, having hobbled outside of the gym to make this very important phone call. 

 

The girl answering the phone at the cookie cake place sounds bored. “Um… yeah? Do you have an address?” 

 

Steve rattles off Bucky’s address and then thinks. “Wait, did I tell you what it should say yet? And that I want it to be a surprise delivery?” 

 

“Okay, spell it out,” cookie cake girl says. “And clearly, please. You’ve seen those memes about all those dumb cakes and I don’t wanna be laughed at on someone’s blog.” 

 

“Okay.” Steve breathes in, then tells her what the cookie should say. 

 

“You sure that’s what you want?” the girl asks. 

 

“Yeah,” Steve tells her. “I’m sure.” 

 

And if nothing else, he hopes that SORRY I’M SUCH AN ASSHOLE in red frosting will make Bucky laugh. 

 

***

 

Steve’s anxious the rest of the afternoon, fingering his illicit phone in his hoodie pocket, checking and double checking to see if there’s a message from Bucky. He wants Bucky to forgive him, to invite him over and let Steve feed him the rest of the cookie cake (if he hasn’t finished it already). He wants to feel Bucky’s arms around him and he wants to nuzzle at Bucky’s neck. 

 

Ultimately, he wants Bucky to be his fucking boyfriend already. 

 

Finally, right around the end of afternoon practice, Steve’s phone buzzes. 

 

_ You ARE an asshole, but I forgive you.  _

 

The little typing ellipses appear and then disappear, and Steve’s not even pretending to pedal anymore as a picture message comes through. 

 

The cookie cake is a little over halfway eaten, and now only says, ‘RY M CH AN OLE’. Bucky has captioned the photo:  _ want to help me finish this up?  _

 

Steve’s already off the exercise bike, fingers tapping away at his response. 

 

_ You need some ice cream with that? _

 

Bucky just sends back the smirking emoji face, and Steve hustles it to the locker room just as fast as his sore ankle can handle. 

 

“Tony.” He taps on the shower curtain like it’s a door, not a flimsy piece of fucking plastic, and Tony’s annoyed voice carries across the whole locker room.

 

“What the actual fuck, Rogers! I’m showering in here!” 

 

“I know, Tony, I know,” Steve says through the curtain, “but can I please,  _ please _ borrow your car. Just this once. It’s an emergency.” 

 

Steve doesn’t have to see Tony’s face to know that he’s raising a skeptical eyebrow. 

 

“Okay, fine, Rogers, but just this once. And if there is  _ one. Single. Scratch  _ on her, I will Tonya Harding you without a second thought. We clear?” 

 

“Yeah, sure, okay,” Steve babbles. “Now where are your keys?” 

 

Tony turns off the water and emerges from the shower stall, dripping and nude. 

 

“Christ, Tony, I never needed to see that.” 

 

“Please, I know how you bend, Rogers, and you’re getting a treat. And besides, I thought you were in some kind of a hurry? But if you want to wait for me to dry off, by all means…” 

 

Steve can feel his cheeks flaming, but he’s so eager to get over to Bucky’s that he doesn’t care. 

 

“Just grab the keys, Tony.” 

 

“Grabbing.” 

 

Tony tosses the keys at Steve and he snatches them out of the air, already hobbling away the second they’re in his possession. 

 

“Go get him, Steve,” Tony says to his back, and Steve grins for the first time since his ill-conceived vault. 

 

He is going to get him, that’s for sure. But first, he’s stopping at the grocery store and picking up some ice cream.

 

***

 

At the Target on the way to Bucky’s house, Steve can’t decide between Americone Dream and Chunky Monkey. He gets them both, zipping through the self-checkout and back to Tony’s ridiculous Audi, which zips him all the way to Bucky’s house in a blink. 

 

Almost before he knows it, he’s texting “here” to Bucky and getting buzzed up. And then Bucky is meeting him at the door in another scandalously tight t-shirt and low-slung sweatpants, rolled down underneath the swell of his stomach. 

 

“Hey,” Steve says, suddenly unsure of himself and feeling awkward, the ice cream cartons cold and damp against his chest. But then Bucky’s looking at him with a peculiar expression on his face, and then Bucky’s pulling Steve into him and the ice cream and Steve’s arms are squished between them as Bucky kisses Steve hard. 

 

“Asshole,” Bucky says as they break apart. “You really are.” But he smiles as he says it, and all feels right with the world again. 

 

“I know I am,” Steve says slowly, moving back in and nuzzling Bucky’s neck a little-- Christ, it’s only been two weeks and did he forget how fucking  _ huge _ Bucky really is?!-- before murmuring, “I really am sorry, you know.” 

 

“I know,” Bucky says easily, and there’s a gleam of a tease in his eye. “... But I want you to  _ show  _ me just how sorry you are.”

 

Steve swallows, mouth immediately going dry. 

 

“How are you gonna show me, Steve?” Bucky wants to know, and even now as they’re making up he’s still the biggest tease Steve’s ever seen. 

 

Steve clears his throat and hefts the ice cream in his hand. “First, I’m going to feed you this ice cream and the rest of that cookie, and I’m going to tell you how gorgeous you are. Then I’m going to rub you down and blow you until you can’t even remember your own name. Now,” Steve instructs, “Go get a spoon and meet me in the living room.” 

 

***

 

When Bucky returns from the kitchen, Steve’s naked on the couch except for his boxer briefs, which are tiny and printed with photorealistic ice cream cones. 

 

“Mm,” Bucky says as he sees Steve. “Can’t decide which I want more. You or that ice cream.” 

 

“Don’t have to choose,” Steve sasses back. “You get it all, handsome. All in that big belly of yours.” 

 

Bucky blushes, and  _ Christ _ , Steve might come in his briefs like a teenage boy. 

 

“Get over here,” Steve directs, “and open your mouth.” 

 

The remains of the big cookie are still on the coffee table, so Steve reaches into the box and breaks off a big bite of cookie, offering it to Bucky on his palm. Bucky takes it with his mouth and Steve’s going to have to pace himself carefully here, or he really is going to come untouched. 

 

“Mmm,” Bucky says. “More.” 

 

“Fuckin’ tease,” Steve says, and aims the spoon at Bucky’s chest. “Chunky Monkey or Americone Dream?” He has both cartons open and waiting on the couch between them. 

 

Bucky chews for a moment, considering. “Both,” he says finally, and Steve smiles and leans forward to give him a quick kiss. 

 

“Good choice.” Steve loads up a spoonful with both ice creams and feeds it to Bucky, who moans a little. 

 

“‘S really good,” Bucky says after he swallows, and Steve can’t help grinning. “More,” Bucky demands then, and Steve is quick to acquiesce. 

 

***

 

“Gimme a little rest,” Bucky says after Steve’s scraping the bottom of Chunky Monkey and Americone Dream is greatly diminished. “Tummy hurts.” He pouts a bit, just because he  _ knows _ how wild that drives Steve.

 

“Okay, baby,” Steve says, and it’s like the last two weeks never happened-- like Steve never threw that vault and Bucky never asked for a little break. 

 

Steve puts the cartons and spoon back on the coffee table, where they join the last remnants of the cookie cake. Bucky’s leaned back against the couch, panting a little from fullness, his good hand rubbing at the apex of his belly. Steve watches his hand move over and over that really pinchable more-than-inch until Bucky startles him by speaking. 

 

“Can I have a drink?” Bucky asks, and Steve jumps. 

 

“Yeah, Buck. What do you want? Milk? Water?” 

 

Bucky considers, still rubbing his stomach. “Some pop, maybe?” 

 

Steve pauses for a moment. “Pop? Oh… oh, okay, you mean like Diet Coke or something.” 

 

“Sorry.” Bucky says, still rubbing. “Forgot you East Coasters don’t drink pop, you drink sooooda.” He draws the word out and Steve leans over to kiss the tip of his nose. 

 

“Asshole,” Steve whispers, fondly. 

 

“You love it,” Bucky replies, and Steve kisses his forehead before heading to the fridge. He snags a can of Diet Coke Cherry for each of them and then returns to the living room. 

 

“Here,” Steve says, handing Bucky the slightly-melted remnants of Chunky Monkey while he cracks a can open, “You can make your own float.” 

 

“God,” Bucky says around a mouthful of ice cream, “I’m gonna pop like that blueberry girl in Willy Wonka.” 

 

“Oh, shush,” Steve admonishes, taking the spoon away. “You love it.” 

 

Bucky pouts at hearing his own words thrown back at him, but obediently opens his mouth for ice cream when Steve loads up the spoon. 

 

“Now a drink,” Steve says, and Bucky takes a long swig of Diet Coke. 

 

“Now ice cream,” Steve says, again, and then again, and then the carton is empty and Bucky is sprawled out with his head in Steve’s lap, in overfull, glorious pain. 

 

“Hey,” Steve says suddenly, and Bucky slowly blinks. 

 

“Yeah?” He shifts a little and Steve keeps on rubbing his belly with the heel of his hand. 

 

“Will you be my boyfriend?” Steve bites his lip, suddenly terrified that Bucky’s not in this like he is, but then Bucky smiles up at him lazily. 

 

“Of course,” he says, and Steve feels his smile spread over his face like melted butter. 

  
*****


	8. Chapter 8

Buzz. 

 

**Natasha Romanov:** _what the fuck dude? Barnes is your kept boy now? TEXT ME BACK_

 

Buzz. 

 

**Clint Barton:** _gooooooooooooooooooooal_

 

Buzz. Buzz.

 

**Tony Stark:** _ I swear to god if you consummated this relationship in my Audi I will smother you with a panel mat.  _

 

**Tony Stark:** _Mazel tov, by the way._

 

***

 

“Hey,” Bucky says sleepily. “You wanna get that?” 

 

Steve sighs. Bucky’s nestled up next to him, his belly pressed against the side of Steve’s leg and his face resting on Steve’s upper thigh. 

 

“I’ll get it,” Steve says finally, and carefully shifts so that he can reach his phone on the nightstand. 

 

“Whas’ all that?” Bucky moves a little so that he’s lying on his back next to Steve. 

 

Steve flushes. “I, uh. I updated my facebook relationship status. Um.” 

 

Bucky’s eyes widen. “Did you?” 

 

“Um. Yes?” 

 

Bucky gropes around for Steve, latches onto his shirt, and yanks him down for an awkwardly-angled peck. 

 

“And they say chivalry is dead.” He smirks as he levers himself up to a sitting position, one hand on his gut. 

 

“You okay with that?” Steve asks, and Bucky yawns hugely, grinning afterward. 

 

“As long as you are,” he replies easily, and Steve gets that warm butter feeling in his heart again. They look at each other goopily for a moment and then Steve clears his throat.

 

“So. Breakfast?” he asks, and Bucky chuckles. 

 

“I’m a little full from last night still-- but yeah. I could eat.” 

 

***

 

“Could eat” turns out to mean something along the lines of “eat like a hungry linebacker.” Steve rummages around in Bucky’s kitchen and comes up with the ingredients for chocolate chip pancakes, and Bucky eats two tall stacks soaked in butter and maple syrup. 

 

“I have to run to practice,” Steve tells him, planting a big kiss on Bucky’s cheek. “Unfortunately. And I have PT early tomorrow morning. But I’ll see you on Saturday night?” 

 

“You’ll see me this afternoon,” Bucky says, swallowing a mouthful of pancake. “Sam asked me to come do some trampoline drills with you for your vault.” 

 

“Oh. Um. Okay.” 

 

“That all right?” Bucky puts his hand over Steve’s on the table and squeezes. “You think you can still let me coach you even if I’m your boyfriend?” 

 

Steve blushes at the word, but nods emphatically. “Yeah, yeah. That’s not my problem. I mean, there’s not a problem- it’s just that, uh, you kind of drive me crazy.” 

 

“Is that so?” Bucky tilts his chair back on two legs and lets his hand splay on his full stomach, smiling when he notes that Steve’s tracking it like a laser. “Can’t imagine why.” 

 

“Asshole,” Steve says, and hooks his foot around the base of the chair so that Bucky comes back down with a thump and an “oof.” 

 

Steve grins. “See you later.” 

 

***

 

Morning practice passes in nondescript fashion; Steve pedals and does conditioning and then warms up a little basic tumbling on the Tumbl Trak. His ankle is still a little sore but it’s feeling a lot better and Steve’s already itching to do more. 

 

He moves on to high bar, where he practices release sequences on the high bar placed over the pit so he doesn’t risk hurting his ankle with falling or dismounting. 

 

By the lunch break, he’s received several more text messages-- more from Natasha and a few from some of his friends from college who are done with gymnastics. 

 

He texts Natasha:  _ Let’s FaceTime soon. I have lots to tell you. Too much for texting.  _

 

She’s nonplussed by this response and immediately types back:  _ ugh you’re such a drama queen. But okay.  _

 

Steve’s about to put his phone down when another message from Nat comes through:  _ PS snapchat me a sneaky pic of Barnes because I heard he’s even bigger and hairier than last time I saw him  _

 

Attached to the end of this message is a little string of bear emojis. 

 

Steve sighs and tries to think about how much simpler life must’ve been before social media. 

 

***

 

After lunch, Coach Wilson calls Steve over to the in-ground trampolines. 

 

“Rogers,” Coach Wilson says in his my-voice-carries-through-several-dimensions boom, “I heard about you and Barnes, so congrats. But if it starts to get distracting in any way-- for you  _ or _ for me, I don’t feel one bit bad about breaking up this dream team, even if it costs you a world vault medal. You feel me?” 

 

Steve gulps, but nods in big, exaggerated motions. 

 

“Tl;dr,” summarizes Clint from where he’s chalking up the high bar, “Don’t fuck in the pit.” 

 

“Christ, Barton,” Coach Wilson says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re always so damn graphic.” 

 

“Or on the mats!” Clint grins and then hops onto the high bar, taking a few test swings and then hopping off with a sloppy flyaway. 

 

“All right, all right,” Coach Wilson calls, clapping his hands. “Back to it, men! Let’s move beyond Rogers’ romantic dalliances and go back to the world of actual skills and routines. Okay!” 

 

“As if,” Steve mutters to himself, “I’d want to bang anywhere near a gym.” 

 

“Rogers,” Coach Wilson says next, in a more normal tone. “I want you to do some drills from the tramp into the pit today. Bucky will be here soon to help you out, but for now I want you to start with some nice high double fronts. Spot your landing. Think about when you’re going to twist, but no twisting until Bucky gets here. Got it?” 

 

“Yup.” Steve nods, and then hops onto the big in-ground trampoline. It’s mustard-yellow with a big maroon cross on the middle so that gymnasts can use it to spot. 

 

Steve takes some warm up jumps and then works on the drill like Coach Wilson had said, getting so into the groove that he doesn’t even notice that Bucky’s arrived until he clears his throat. 

 

“Hey,” Bucky says easily, and Steve ungracefully stops bouncing and falls on his butt. Instead of his usual sweats and hoodie over a tight t-shirt, today Bucky is clad in the tightest compression shirt Steve’s ever seen and basketball shorts. His feet are bare, and he’s got his hair tied back in a little man-bun. 

 

Steve’s ocular pressure goes up just looking at him briefly. Steve gets up from the trampoline bed and steps back onto the floor beside it. 

 

“Hey yourself,” he says, and allows himself a quick little squeeze of Bucky’s hand. “Don’t you look… dashing.” 

 

Bucky winks at him and then takes a little jump onto the trampoline. 

 

“Jesus,” he says after a few bounces. “Haven’t been on one of these in months. Feels a little different.” 

 

Steve’s eyes are seriously going to pop out of his head. Bucky’s belly jiggles with each bouncing motion and it’s almost more than he can take. Even standing still, he could see the dimple of Bucky’s bellybutton through the shirt, and now Steve can see a whole lot more than just bellybutton. 

 

Bucky jumps for a little bit, getting his bearings, and then casually does a double front into the pit. 

 

“Not so bad, right?” he calls to Steve, poking his head out of the foam cubes. 

 

Steve stares as Bucky makes his way out of the pit. 

 

“That bad, huh?” Bucky says, and Steve literally has to shake his head so that he can focus, like he’s a character in a cartoon. 

 

“No, no, not bad at all. Perfect. So perfect.” 

 

“Huh.” Bucky scratches at the little slice of tummy that’s peeking out from between his shirt and shorts, and then tugs the shirt back down. “I thought I could’ve rotated a little faster, but I’ll just do another one to see how it feels.” He clasps Steve’s shoulder for a brief moment, and then squeezes past the petrified statute of erect wood currently masquerading as his boyfriend and hops back onto the trampoline. 

 

Steve’s motionless as Bucky bounces, does another double front, climbs out of the pit. Bounces, double front half out, climbs out of the pit. Bounces, lower belly jiggling free of the shirt, double front full out. Climbs out of the pit, says, “Man, I’m probably going to eat a horse after all of this,” winks, and bounces again. 

 

Steve is in hell. Actually. Burning. This torture goes on for an agonizing few minutes while Steve desperately tries to think about unsexy things, like rips and blocks of chalk and athlete’s foot. That is, until Bucky chastises him for not watching closely-- “I’m here to  _ teach _ you, Stevie”-- and Steve’s right back in the flames. 

 

“Okay,” Bucky says after one last turn. He’s breathing hard, and he motions for Steve to join him sitting cross-legged on the mat. “God,” he pants. “Almost forgot how tiring that is.” 

 

“Huh?” Steve asks. “What was that?” He’s staring again. He can’t help it. Bucky’s forehead is glistening with sweat now and the tight shirt is a little damp. All he wants to do is lay Bucky back with his head in his lap and feed him a giant milkshake. 

 

“Did you see where I was initiating the twist?” Bucky swipes his wrist across his forehead, looking at Steve earnestly. Christ, Bucky’s totally on task and Steve is a pervert. 

 

“Yeah, uh, yeah, I did,” Steve says. “I could tell that I’m doing it a little earlier than you were.” 

 

“Yup.” Bucky nods. “And that’s where your problem lies, young grasshopper.” He nods over at the trampoline. “Your turn. Let me see it.” 

 

Steve stands up mechanically and starts to do a few warm up jumps, head still full of ice cream and bouncing bellies. He does a double front half out to start, and then the full out. Bucky screws his face up a little, considering. 

 

“Again,” he says. “Again.” 

  
Bucky has Steve run through the drill so many times that Steve has to beg for a quick water break. He walks slowly back to the locker room to retrieve his Camelbak and then takes a little bit of time to check his phone. 

 

**Natasha Romanov:** _where’s my snap?!??!?_

 

Steve types quickly.  _ It’s coming, you ingrate. Trying to be surreptitious  _

 

**Natasha Romanov:** _well cut the spy act and just take it already, mama wants to see_

 

She sends the bear emoji again, and Steve stifles a sigh. He sends back the middle finger emoji but slips his phone into the pocket of his shorts anyway. 

 

He might feign annoyance, but inside he’s bursting, grinning at the fact that he now has a boyfriend so beefy and desirable that other people want to see pictures of him. Steve tries to forget this about himself, but it’s true: he’s a show-off, and he likes people to know it. 

 

***

 

Natasha gets her picture just a few minutes later-- Bucky standing with his big arms crossed over his chest, talking to Coach Wilson. 

 

Natasha sends back a snap of her delighted face a few moments later.  _ #winning _ , she types.  _ You know I love a good bicep. _

 

Steve’s about to respond, but Natasha has more to say.  _ Have to say, I like my men a little more on the muscly side, but damn does Barnes look good all chunked up.  _ She sends a string of little 100’s and Steve’s eyes almost cross. 

 

Well. It’s not like he’s the only one who’s noticed that Bucky’s  _ chunked up _ , so to speak, but just knowing that someone else sees it gives him a little shiver of delight in some visceral way he doesn’t really understand. 

 

_ Yeah, _ Steve sends back.  _ He does, doesn’t he? _

 

He stands there for a moment after he puts his phone back in his pocket, but then Coach Wilson notices him and motions for him to come closer. 

 

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Steve. Bucky says you’re making progress.” 

 

As Steve gets back onto the trampoline and takes his first few jumps, he’s not at all focusing on the progress he’s made with Bucky- the indent of his bellybutton, the soft little noises he makes when he’s eating. Not at all. 

 

“Nice work, Bucky,” is all Coach Wilson has to say after that. “Looks like you’ve got our boy Rogers’ timing down.” 

 

Bucky winks at Steve, so quickly he’s not even sure he sees it. “Yup,” he says. “Got it all down.” 

 

***

 

“You minx,” Steve says later, when he’s putting Bucky’s blender together and spooning ingredients into it. “You  _ knew _ you were driving me insane that whole time and you _ loved it _ .” 

 

Bucky chuckles, steepling his hands on the table. “Maybe.” 

 

Steve scoops ice cream into the blender. “Just for that,” he says, gesturing with the scoop, “I’m going to feed you this whole thing, and then I’m going to make you beg me to come.” 

 

Bucky’s eyes track the movement of Steve’s wrist as he drizzles chocolate sauce into the blender.

 

“Is that a promise?” he says. 

  
*****


	9. Chapter 9

Weeks pass, and Steve’s ankle feels almost completely normal again. He’s hitting routine after routine in practice, and Bucky’s up 15 pounds. There’s a correlation, of that Steve is certain. 

 

On the outside, he and Bucky are maintaining a coach-athlete relationship with the occasional chaste hand squeeze or peck on the cheek. Bucky gives Steve instructions and feedback, and seemingly, Steve responds well. 

 

Even Coach Wilson notices, and assigns Bucky to coach Steve on floor as well, impressed with Steve’s tireless work ethic and the progress he’s been making. 

 

The thing no one else in the gym knows: the way Bucky lowers his voice after giving Steve a coaching tip, says things like, “You hit 10 routines, and I’ll eat 10 donuts in the car.” 

 

Steve has never been so motivated in his life. 

 

The first time it happened, Steve didn’t even know what was going on. Sure, Bucky’s always been a tease, even in the gym-- having sandwiches delivered, walking into the gym while finishing a large Dairy Queen Blizzard, etc-- but this is on a whole new level. 

 

“Good, Steve,” Bucky’d started out with, “but a little tighter on the form next time; your ankles were a little helicopter-y on the last twist.” 

 

Steve had nodded, breathing hard and getting ready for another run-through of his floor passes. 

 

“And,” Bucky had added, almost under his breath, so softly that Steve had had to move closer to hear him, “if you do five more stuck, I’ll order a large pizza and have it waiting at home.” 

 

Steve had just stood there gaping, and then Bucky’d breathed, “And breadsticks, if you do ten.” Then he’d given Steve a pat on the shoulder and told him to get on with it. 

 

After the fifth stuck triple full, Steve had come back over to Bucky to grab his water bottle. 

 

“Is that really how this is going to work?” he’d asked, and Bucky had just smirked back at him. 

 

“Isn’t it?” 

And so now Steve’s finishing up his fifteenth nearly flawless parallel bars routine of the day, and Bucky’s going to pick up McDonald’s on his way home. Later, Steve’s going to blow him while Bucky stuffs his face with fries. 

 

It’s the best gymnastics Steve’s ever done, and the best sex he’s ever had-- and all he wants is more. 

 

*** 

 

Even so, it’s been a little weird, this tenuous switching of roles that Bucky’s been instigating. Steve, who’s always been bossy, in bed and out, has been thrown for a bit of a loop. That loop hasn’t tightened around his neck to strangle him, though, like he would’ve thought, but instead has expanded to accommodate Bucky’s expanding girth. 

 

“You’re the bossiest sub I’ve ever had,” Steve confessed recently, after too much time with Tony and the other guys out at the local watering hole and too many shots. 

 

“I’m not your sub,” Bucky had told him cheerfully, eyes glinting up at him in the semi-dark bedroom. “I just like doing what you tell me.” 

 

“You just like being a tease,” Steve told him, slurring a little, and then fell asleep. They haven’t touched the topic since, but Steve’s ready to broach it tonight-- it’s a Friday night, they’re still a few weeks out from Nationals and Steve has the night off and doesn’t have to be in the gym until the next afternoon. He’s looking forward to sleeping in with Bucky pressed up against him, warm and solid. 

 

“You still have your Olympic leo?” Steve asks, already feeling his heart rate go up. 

 

“Yeah, guess so,” Bucky says around a mouthful of Chinese takeout. “Why?” 

 

Steve ducks his head down and bites his lip. He has to control his emotions or they will run away from him and fucking sprint down the vault runway and chuck the Barnes. 

 

“Well…” Steve can’t help the little smirk that tugs the corners of his mouth up. Bucky’s grey eyes search his face for a second, and then realization lights them up. 

 

“... Oh. I see.” Bucky pushes himself up from the couch and stretches, his shirt riding up a little bit, showing a delicious sliver of belly. “Yeah, I think it’s in the closet in the other room. You want me to go get it now?” 

 

“Will you?” It comes out more eagerly than Steve intends, but there goes his mouth again. The dish and the spoon have nothing on Steve’s mouth and his emotions. Together they’re going to become marathon runners. 

 

Bucky smirks again, and Steve stands up, too. He has to take a little control of this situation, so he catches Bucky’s thick upper arm as Bucky’s making his way to the other room. 

 

“Go get it and put it on,” Steve instructs, locking his gaze with Bucky’s. “Put it on and let me see you”-- he pulls Bucky closer and says the next part softly into Bucky’s ear-- “and then I’m gonna feed you until you can’t even get up.” 

 

Steve feels Bucky’s breath hitch at that, and he lets go of Bucky’s arm with a fond little pat to his shoulder. Then Steve takes a deep breath himself and heads into the kitchen to see what he can add to what’s left of the Chinese food. 

 

***

 

Quite a bit, as it happens. It’s not surprising, though-- Steve knows how Bucky eats nowadays (does he ever), and has even gotten to bear witness to Bucky’s grocery shopping habits, watching him nonchalantly place bags of Doritos and family-size frozen dinners in his cart like it’s nothing. 

 

Raiding Bucky’s cabinets yields a bag of puffy Cheetos, a quart of chocolate milk, and a box of Tagalong Girl Scout Cookies. Steve hems for a moment over adding the pint of Haagen-Dazs, but ultimately shrugs and tucks it between his arm and his side. Maybe Bucky can’t finish all of this, but Steve will be happy just to see him try. 

 

He almost drops everything he’s holding when he comes back into the living room. Bucky is sprawled out along the length of the couch, looking gloriously lazy and fat. His Olympic leotard hugs his gut like a second skin, and one that’s about to split at that. 

 

Steve quickly places all of the food he’s carrying on the coffee table next to the rest of the Chinese takeout and then takes a long moment just to take Bucky in. 

 

He whistles, long and low, and Bucky raises an eyebrow. Steve drops to his knees in front of the couch, reaching out a hand to trace the curve of Bucky’s torso through the tight fabric. 

 

“Looks a little tighter than it used to, huh?” Bucky asks, and chuckles a little. “Feels like it, too.” 

 

Steve breathes. “No,” he says. “It’s perfect.  _ You’re _ perfect.” He takes Bucky’s chin in his hands and kisses him, hard, swiping his tongue aggressively over Bucky’s teeth. He feels Bucky respond to him immediately, his hand running up and down Steve’s arm. 

 

They break apart with a mutual little moan of wanting, and Steve grins. “Still hungry, champ?” he murmurs, and Bucky nods, not looking away from Steve’s face. 

 

“Starving,” he says, and Steve can’t stop himself from kissing him again. 

 

***

 

“What do you want first?” Steve asks after he’s got them set up on the couch. 

 

“I want some tv in the background,” Bucky says. “Don’t want the whole soundtrack to be me stuffing my face.” 

 

Steve personally wouldn’t mind this, but he acquiesces and powers on the Roku, clicking through to YouTube. 

 

“What’re you doing?” Bucky asks, mouth full of Chinese. Steve gives him a look, and Bucky swallows, a little guiltily. “Couldn’t wait, babe,” he says, and Steve suppresses a shiver. “So hungry.” 

 

“Mmm,” Steve says, hitting the play button. “Hungry, huh?” He nuzzles into Bucky’s thick neck and gently bites at his ear. 

 

Bucky grunts as Steve moves his hand over his shoulder and down his back, feeling the rolls of flesh that certainly weren’t there during the Olympics. 

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says once he’s swallowed another big bite of dumpling and leaned back against the couch, letting his belly mound in front of him, his leotard clinging and his deep bellybutton clearly outlined. “What’re you going to do about it?” 

 

“Sassy,” Steve tells him. “Just for that, I want you to finish the Chinese first. You want some chocolate milk?” 

 

“Sure,” Bucky says easily, and Steve hops up. 

 

“I’ll grab you a glass.” 

 

“Okay.” Bucky shrugs and takes another bite of dumpling, cheeks rounding adorably as he shoves the whole thing into his mouth. 

 

Only when Steve gets back--having retrieved one of Bucky’s Spotted Cow pint glasses-- Bucky’s already got the milk open and is chugging directly from the container. He catches Steve’s eye as he gulps and takes a couple more big swallows before putting it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. 

 

“Jesus,” Steve exhales. “Jesus Christ, Buck.” 

 

Bucky blows out a hard breath and then belches. “You wanted me to not be able to get up, right?” 

 

Steve’s own breath catches, and his cock instantly sublimates from coal dust to diamond. 

 

“Well,” Bucky says, taking one more swig of milk before re-capping the container, “I plan to make that happen.” 

 

***

 

“What’re we even watching, anyway?” Bucky asks when the Chinese food is gone and the milk container is half-full. Steve’s holding a Cheeto out for him and Bucky delicately takes it into his mouth. 

 

Steve goes red. “It’s uh... “ 

 

Bucky squints at the screen, crunching. “Jesus. It’s the Olympics.  _ My _ Olympics.” 

 

“If you don’t want to watch it,” Steve babbles, “it’s okay. I just-- God, Buck, looking at you in that uniform, it drives me crazy. And don’t get me wrong, but I feel like you now”-- he gestures at Bucky, full and wanton on the couch, hand already reaching into the Cheeto bag for more-- “is way happier than that guy on the podium.” 

 

“God, you’re such a little weirdo,” Bucky says, but fondly. He crunches a handful of Cheetos and pats his belly, which looks fit to burst out of the leotard. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I am happier now. It’s not so stressful, y’know?” His hand reaches out and finds Steve, squeezing. “I miss it sometimes, yeah, but I like this better.” He hefts his gut and Steve’s about ready to explode. 

 

Bucky takes another handful of Cheetos. “Plus,” he says consideringly, “I’ve got this kinky little twink all to myself and he thinks my fat ass is the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.” 

 

“C’mere,” Steve says then, after a pause. “C’mere and let’s get you out of that tight thing and let’s get that ice cream and the rest of that milk into you.” 

 

“God,” Bucky says as Steve takes down the arms of the leotard. “I love you, you kinky little punk.” 

 

Steve startles and almost falls off the couch. “Iloveyoutoo,” he says all at once, then, hotly: “and you like it too, you beefy asshole.” 

 

***

 

Steve’s right. Bucky does like it too, if the tent in his boxer briefs is anything to go by. 

 

“Ice cream now,” Steve tells him, rolling the leotard down until it’s underneath the swell of Bucky’s excess, and Steve can run a hand over it in wonder. 

 

“Where do you put it all?” he says teasingly. 

 

“I just upgraded,” Bucky tells him seriously. “I used to have a six-pack”-- he nods at the tiny figure in red, white, and blue on the tv screen-- “and now I have a keg.” He hiccups suddenly and Steve carefully pats the upper part of his belly, rubbing gently until Bucky lets out a few soft belches.  

 

“Ugh,” Bucky says. “Gettin’ full over here. M’not going to be able to make it to bed. Gonna have to sleep on the couch.” 

 

Steve works the ice cream lid open with one hand, his other hand still on Bucky’s belly. “Isn’t that the point?” he asks, and Bucky chuckles. 

 

“Touche,” he says, and opens his mouth for the spoon. 

 

***

 

Most of the ice cream goes down easily. Steve murmurs encouraging-- and sometimes filthy-- things in Bucky’s ear until Bucky lets out a little groan. Steve puts the spoon back into the carton and sets it on the coffee table. 

 

“Need-- need a minute,” Bucky pants, then pouts. “Need you to rub this big old gut for a little bit.” 

 

Steve does. He rubs expertly, soothing with fingers in concentric circles and knuckles in massaging motions. He keeps going as Bucky sinks back further into the couch, eyes half-lidded, not even trying to stifle his little burps and moans. He keeps going, as his hands start to travel a little further, dipping down to cup the lower part of Bucky’s gut and to skim over the bulge in his boxer briefs. 

 

“Ugh,” Bucky groans after Steve gives his dick a particularly long caress, “who’s the tease now, huh?” He gazes down at Steve, who gives him a cocky little smile. 

 

“You,” Steve tells him slowly, “start feeding yourself the rest of that ice cream, and I’ll keep going down here.” 

 

“God,” Bucky says, and it’s more of a moan than a word. 

 

“Need the spoon?” Steve asks wickedly, and places it in Bucky’s hand. He takes a moment to give Bucky’s cock a good long squeeze, and Bucky’s so quick to shove a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth that he almost chokes. 

 

“Careful, honey,” Steve says, inching Bucky’s briefs down his chunky hips, caressing the red indentations on them. “Slow and steady, okay? You keep going, and I keep going.” 

 

Bucky’s cock gives a little twitch after being freed from the briefs, and Steve bends to give it a lick. 

 

“You let me know if you need a break, okay?” Steve murmurs, kissing the inside of Bucky’s thigh. “Or if you need me to take over.” 

 

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Bucky says, mouth full, and Steve grins as his mouth gets full, too. 

 

And it’s not-- Bucky comes just a few minutes later as he’s scraping the ice cream carton clean and Steve is sucking his dick like it’s an Olympic event and he’s in the finals. 

 

“You know what?” Bucky asks a little later, after he’s regained the ability to speak and Steve has returned from cleaning himself up (jizzed in his pants,  _ again _ , like a 13-year-old boy whose hot substitute teacher just dropped a pencil next to his desk). “If this”-- he gestures at the coffee table and its debris of empty food packaging and his own stuffed gut-- “were an event, I’d give you the gold.” 


	10. Chapter 10

“Thirty,” Bucky says in lieu of good morning, lifting Steve’s ankles and plopping down on the couch, redepositing Steve’s feet in his lap. 

 

“Thirty?” Steve repeats, still engrossed in reading a reddit thread. 

 

“Thirty  _ pounds _ ,” Bucky says, patting one of Steve’s feet. “Well, more like thirty-three. Um. Since we’ve started dating.” 

 

Steve’s laptop almost slides to the floor. “Thirty?” he says again, setting the laptop down next to the couch and scooting down the couch closer to Bucky. “You’re sure?” 

 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I’m busting out of all my fat clothes and eating about 5,000 calories a day. I’m pretty fucking sure.” 

 

Steve gulps. “God.” His hand hovers in between himself and Bucky for a moment, until Bucky grabs it with his own and places it on his tummy. 

 

“You wanna make it fifty by Worlds?” 

 

Steve’s biting his lip so hard he draws blood. 

 

“Worlds,” he repeats. “As in the competition that’s two months away.” 

 

“Yup,” Bucky says, popping the ‘p.’ 

 

“You think you can handle that?” Steve wants to know, his fingers slipping underneath the (tight) waistband of Bucky’s boxer briefs. 

 

Bucky draws back for a moment. “I know  _ I _ can, it’s  _ you _ I’m worried about.” 

 

Touche. 

 

***

 

At first, Steve’s a little shy about it. Of course he’s always been into the idea of Bucky gaining more weight- Bucky was gorgeous at about 225 when he and Steve started dating, and he’s gorgeous now at close to 260. The idea of Bucky gaining almost twenty more pounds-- in the next two months, no less-- is dazzling, to say the least. 

 

Steve’s already been mesmerized by watching Bucky’s tight t-shirts grow even tighter, by watching Bucky roll down the waistband of his underwear as the night goes on, by the pale pink constellations of stretch marks on Bucky’s belly and thighs. Imagining Bucky getting even bigger, seeing his gut bump into the counter while he’s moseying around the kitchen and watching his belly splay out in front of him while he sits on the floor to play with the cat. Something about that just gets Steve brilliantly hot with the fires of at least a thousand suns. 

 

In this scenario, Bucky is the sun, and Steve is Icarus. A perpetually-horny Icarus who flies close to the ever-growing sun, mindless of any burns this may cause. 

 

Bucky, for what it’s worth, takes to this new challenge with gusto. 

 

The next morning as he’s driving Steve to the gym, he goes through the McDonald’s drive-thru and orders a large breakfast combo. 

 

“Babe,” Steve says. “We just had breakfast at home.” 

 

“So?” Bucky shrugs as he roots for exact change in one of his cupholders. “I’m a growing boy.” 

 

“That you are,” Steve says, and drops it. This really shouldn’t bother him-- this is what he wants, right? For Bucky to eat even more, gain even more weight? True-- it’s just that  _ Steve _ wants to be the one ordering the food. Wants to be the one telling Bucky what to do. He knows that Bucky’s not trying to dom him; it’s that Bucky loves to tease and he knows exactly how to push all of Steve’s buttons at once (while popping his own). Bucky knows exactly how revved up Steve gets by seeing Bucky leaned back in his chair, puffing from fullness. 

 

Steve muses on it a little more, and then almost bites through his lip. He’s pretty sure he knows exactly how they can come to a compromise.

 

Steve steps out of the gym during his lunch break and leans up against the wall outside, stretching his calves and using the gym’s wifi to Yelp through potential settings for his plan. He scrolls, occasionally clicking and reading through reviews, starting to get worried that he won’t find the perfect place when-- he clicks, and can immediately imagine it all falling into place. Steve hits the call button and makes a reservation for Friday night. 

 

***

 

Steve takes the rest of the week to fully focus on gymnastics. He mentally shelves his careful plans and barely lets himself get distracted by Bucky, even when Bucky seems to be expending even more energy on driving Steve crazy. Bucky goes through a drive-thru every day on their way to the gym, and then goes out again at lunchtime. He’s nursing a soft drink from a different fast food franchise every time Steve looks at him, and brushing crumbs off his belly more often than not. 

 

Still, Steve is undeterred. So much so that on Friday morning while Steve is running through vaults, Bucky hisses at him to come over and says, “Are you not into this anymore?” All while looking like a sad, chubby panda. 

 

Steve’s eyes widen. “No, no, no, babe. Just-- Coach Wilson pulled me aside earlier and said that Worlds has gotta be my main focus right now. We’re too close to the team determination for me to lose it right now by being distracted.” Steve pauses and bends down to whisper the last part into Bucky’s ear. “... Even when that distraction is you and how insanely hot you are.” His hand darts down quickly, almost of its own accord, and gives Bucky’s gut a brief pat. 

 

“Plus,” Steve says, starting to jog slowly backwards down the vault runway. “I’ve got a surprise for you tonight.” 

 

Bucky’s eyebrows go up, and the little coal in Steve’s chest sizzles. He feels the heat wanting to move further down to his groin, but tamps it down and focuses. He carefully finds his starting spot and visualizes a perfect vault in his mind. Then he runs, handsprings, flips, and twists. He sticks the vault cold, and it’s probably the best he’s ever done it. 

 

Steve allows himself a small arm pump, and hears a slow clap from the direction of the parallel bars, where Coach Wilson has been working with Clint and Tony. 

 

“Steve, that’s huge! That’s a medal contender kind of vault right there.” Coach Wilson’s normally impassive face looks impressed. 

 

Steve ducks his head and smiles. “It was all Bucky,” he calls back to Coach Wilson, and almost loses his cool with a snigger. 

 

Coach Wilson just shakes his head, and Steve lets a bit of a swagger bleed into his step as he comes back towards Bucky’s chair. 

 

“7 p.m.,” he says, leaning down to Bucky’s ear again. “You, me, Carmen Sandiego’s. Dress up. I’ll pick you up.” 

 

Bucky’s mouth makes a little ‘o’ of surprise and his chin pudge doubles. “... Anything else?” he finally manages. 

 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Come hungry.” 

 

***

 

Carmen Sandiego’s is exactly the kind of place you’d expect to exist in a hippie college town, Steve thinks as he carefully maneuvers Tony’s Audi into a parking space near the entrance. It’s a weird mix of upscale, multiethnic foods and all of the waitstaff wear Burberry trenches and take orders in little leather Moleskine notebooks. Steve wants to hate it, but he can’t. 

 

Bucky, for what it’s worth, seems delighted, and tugs a little on Steve’s arm to point at the model planes hanging from the ceiling, each with little twinkle lights to give the dim atmosphere a bit more illumination. 

 

“I’ve always heard a lot about this place since I moved here,” Bucky says, “but I never quite got around to eating here, I guess.” 

 

Steve’s about to say something, but then the maitre d says, “Mr. Rogers, party of two?” and they are escorted off by their Burberried waitress. 

 

Their booth is seashell-shaped and in a corner- not completely secluded, but not out in the middle of the dining room, which is exactly what Steve had requested, so he’s very pleased. He’s also pleased to see Bucky heft himself into his side of the booth and already start imagining how he might have to help him squeeze himself out, stuffed silly with everything Steve’s planning to order tonight. 

 

The waitress starts them off with drink orders, and Steve swiftly orders a bottle of wine to share before Bucky can say anything. 

 

“Anything else?” The waitress asks, and Steve politely shakes his head no. 

 

After she’s scampered off, Bucky raises an eyebrow at Steve and gently kicks his foot under the table. 

 

Steve takes a breath. “Tonight,” he starts in a low voice. “I’m going to order for you. I want you to eat as much as you can, but you need to let me know if you reach your hard limit.” He pauses, looking deep into Bucky’s eyes, which are fastened on his own. “Okay?” 

 

Bucky shuts his menu and gently pushes it across the table to Steve. “Okay.” 

 

***

 

To start, Steve orders appetizers from several geographic areas of the menu. A roll of sushi made with pork belly. Mac and cheese with gruyere and truffles. Little puffy breads that look like sambusas without filling, and which Bucky eats all of before Steve even gets a taste. 

 

“Restaurant’s good,” Bucky says on his second glass of wine. He pops another piece of sushi into his mouth and moans. “God, so good.” 

 

“So you like it?” Steve asks, swirling his own glass of wine a little, then taking a sip. 

 

“Love it,” Bucky says, around the last piece of the sushi roll. 

 

Steve mimes a shutting mouth and Bucky flushes and then pats his mouth with a napkin many more times than necessary, then leans back a little into the booth. 

 

“Unf,” he says. “A fella could just eat appetizers here and be plenty happy.”

 

“Not this fella,” Steve says, catching Bucky’s eye. 

 

“No,” Bucky says, not blinking. “Not this one.”  

 

“I’m sure it’s really good-- and filling,” Steve says, sneaking a small taste of the macaroni from the last bite left in the bowl. “But  _ I _ wouldn’t be happy if we finished here. Would you?” He fixes Bucky with his gaze and Bucky flushes again. 

 

“No,” Bucky says. “I’m still hungry.” 

 

“That’s right,” Steve says. “Big guy like you; I know you are.” He sees their waitress coming back towards the table and grins. “Get ready, baby, because there’s a lot more where that came from.” 

 

And there is-- Steve’s never been one to exaggerate. He orders Bucky a large steak and a side of shrimp fettuccine. 

 

“And I’ll have the Peruvian chicken and a salad,” Steve says. “But wait- could I also get the paella? Thanks.” He gives the waitress a little grin and reaches across the table to squeeze Bucky’s hand. 

 

The waitress looks confused for a moment, then scribbles down the order and nods. “Would you like that all at once?” she asks, and Steve nods back. 

 

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll get that order right in.” 

 

“Hey,” Bucky says once they’re alone again. “You mind moving your trim little ass over here a bit? Could use a belly rub before the eating contest masquerading as the main course.” 

 

Steve scoots over right away, biting his lip as he carefully works Bucky’s already-taxed suit jacket buttons open. He skims a hand over Bucky’s stomach, pausing to lean in and press a kiss to Bucky’s neck. 

 

“That’s going to help already, baby,” he says. “That jacket’s so tight. You wanna take it off altogether?” 

 

Bucky nods, and Steve helps him maneuver out of the jacket, compensating for Bucky’s bum arm and the tightness of the booth. 

 

“There we go.” Steve tsks approvingly and scoots even closer to Bucky, cupping his dress-shirted belly in his hand, hefting it in his palm like he’s deciding which watermelon he wants to buy at Whole Foods. 

 

The buttons on Bucky’s shirt are already starting to look a little taxed, and Steve has to swallow down a wild grin, thinking about how maybe Bucky will pop some of them tonight. 

 

“Mmm,” Bucky says as Steve moves his hands over his tummy. “Feels good.” He reaches out and takes a long swig of wine. “Thanks, babe.” 

 

Steve gives Bucky’s stomach one last pat and then scoots back over to his side of the booth. “Anytime, honey. You just say the word.” 

 

Bucky nods, and Steve butters a piece of bread, handing it to him. “Right now,” Bucky says, chewing, “I think the word is ‘bon appetit.’” He swallows and sends Steve a blissful, chubby-cheeked smile. 

 

“Indeed,” Steve says. Indeed. 

 

***

 

By the time Steve’s finished his chicken and salad, Bucky’s halfway through his steak and has made a large dent in the paella and the fettuccine. As Steve watches, Bucky takes a piece of buttered bread and drags it around his steak plate, catching the juices. He’s breathing heavily; Steve can hear it from across the table. 

 

“Whew,” Bucky says, blowing out a hard breath. “I think I might need a little break.” He takes a tiny sip of wine and then hiccups, surprising a little burp up from his gut. “Excuse me.” 

 

“It’s okay, baby,” Steve tells him, already moving over to Bucky’s side and quickly making work of Bucky’s dress pants button-- which is a harder task than even he anticipated. 

 

“Can you suck in at all, honey?” Steve asks. “I’m having trouble here.” 

 

“Ugh.” Bucky pants, and god, Steve loves him so much. 

 

“Okay, okay,” Steve soothes, finally getting the button and letting Bucky’s belly do the rest of the work, pushing the zipper down as it expands outwards. “That better?” 

 

“Yeah.” Bucky hiccups again and carefully pats the top of his gut. “Ugh. So full.” 

 

“I know, honey,” Steve says, and uses deft fingers to tug Bucky’s dress shirt up, untucking it. “That should help.” He works one of his hands underneath the shirt and gives Bucky a little rub, hating himself more than a little when he remembers that they’re in a public restaurant- albeit in a more secluded corner- and he can’t grind his rock-hard dick against Bucky’s thigh. 

 

After a little bit, Bucky says, “Okay, okay,” and picks his fork back up. Steve doesn’t even make a pretense of moving back over to the other side of the booth; now even that distance feels too far. 

 

A few bites later, Bucky’s face screws up in pain and he lets out a long, low belch. “Ugh. That helps,” he says, and Steve pats his belly gently. 

 

“I need you to help, though,” Bucky says. “Need you to tell me what to eat next. Please.” He half-moans that last word, and Steve’s almost leaking into his briefs. 

 

“First, finish the pasta.” Steve bites his lip. “Then let’s work on the rest of the steak. You’ve got it, big guy. Come on. For me.” He says this last part under his breath, and Bucky takes a deep breath and digs back in. 

 

The pasta seems to go down relatively easily, and Bucky’s a few bites into the remainder of the steak when there’s the small, distinct sound under the table of a button giving way. 

 

“Jesus,” Steve breathes, as Bucky leans back and pats his damp forehead with a cloth napkin. He hiccups, and Steve’s mesmerized by watching his belly jerk upward, a solid ball. 

 

“I think,” Steve says, “that we might have to take dessert to go.” 

  
*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So sorry for the very long hiatus; my real life has been crazy busy. I've been interviewing for new jobs and did five cross-country trips in the last month. Luckily, it all worked out and I'll be starting a wonderful new job in July. :) 
> 
> Also, to make up for my absence, please feast your eyes on this tall drink of water: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXQSNBhOUS4 (Sadly, no chub there, but there is beef. And a glorious beard. He's also- as far as I know- the tallest male gymnast currently competing.) 
> 
> As always, come talk to me on tumblr anytime at superstringtheory.tumblr.com. I've been a bit more active there than here lately, so if you'd like to see gymnastics gifs and chubby dudes and thoughts on Marvel (and Seb Stan, when he was beefy- currently he is dead to me), please come by!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for the delay; my life has been a whirlwind lately of cross-country moving, starting a new job, and immediately going to a conference. My thoughts have of course still been with Steve and Bucky, though, and even though this chapter isn't as long as I wanted I'd like to get it out! 
> 
> So here, have about 2000 words of shameless porn. (Maybe some actual gymnastics in the next chapter!?)

They’re only about two minutes into their Uber ride back to Bucky’s apartment and Steve’s going to lose it. He suddenly has a backstage pass to the show where Bucky moans and whines about how full he is, leaning heavily against Steve and pulling Steve’s hands against his taut belly. 

 

Maybe letting Bucky drink the rest of the wine before they left wasn’t Steve’s brightest idea. Now Bucky’s tipsy, or a little more than, and his inhibitions are down. 

 

It’s really hard to resist him when he’s like this- Bucky, who’s always so in control even when he seems like he’s not; his teasing is always careful, slow and deliberate, like a cat stepping around items on a crowded nightstand without disturbing them. But now Steve has to rein himself in, remind himself that as soon as they get home, he can have his way with Bucky, run his hands all over his curves and planes, his softnesses and his hardness. Just a few more minutes, and he’ll set Bucky up in bed and bring the to-go box in with something that feels like reverence. 

 

Until then, Steve grits his teeth.

 

***

 

Steve almost trips out of the Uber when it arrives outside Bucky’s building, so desperate is he to get inside. Bucky, however, seems to need a little help, and so Steve has to lean back in to tug him out. It’s not easy, and when they’re both on the sidewalk, Steve flashes their driver an apologetic wave and swipes the rating to five stars. He clicks “other” to cite this decision. 

 

_ “Driver was really understanding about our probably obviously feedist relationship and my boyfriend’s frequent and unquiet demands that I ‘rub his underbelly so he’d be ready for dessert’” _ just seems like overkill. 

 

“Okay, big fella,” Steve says soothingly, “let’s get you inside and out of these tight clothes.” 

 

Bucky leers at him, and Steve’s heart does a little pitter patter, like he’s back in sixth grade and sees his crush walk past in the hallway. 

 

“Do we have my dessert?” Bucky wants to know, sounding very concerned. 

 

Steve holds the to-go box up in his free hand, and tugs at Bucky’s hand with the other. “Yup. Now come on. You can’t be comfortable.” 

 

“‘m not,” Bucky says, a little petulantly, “because that’s how you want it.” 

 

Steve flushes again, and tugs more insistently. “Inside, honey.” 

 

Steve’s not often embarrassed about his kink these days- god, is he grateful for bear culture and Grommr- but sometimes it hits him and he feels bad about getting off on making Bucky eat until his stomach hurts, until he’s glutted and pliant. 

 

But then there’s a tug on his own hand, and this time it’s Bucky leading Steve. Bucky, who looks at Steve like he’s tall enough to hang the moon and like he’s already an Olympic gold medalist. Steve swallows and follows along- after all, they’re both adults here, and he’s pretty sure no one can argue that Bucky’s not consenting to all of this.  

 

Inside, Bucky promptly goes to the bedroom and lies down on his back, feet still on the floor. Steve follows him in. 

 

“Want some help there, big guy?” 

 

Bucky cracks an eye open like he’s perpetually winking and nods. “Shoes. Pants. Tight.” He huffs out a breath and his dress shirt comes totally free of his pants, and Steve stares. Before he bends to undo Bucky’s shoelaces, he allows himself a quick stroke of Bucky’s curved gut, and feels something like the crackling of the ocean in his ears, he’s so instantly turned on. 

 

Steve removes Bucky’s shoes and tosses them across the room, then kneels in between Bucky’s legs. 

 

“Buck?” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“How do you feel about taking off the pants, but leaving the shirt?” 

 

“Huh?” 

 

Steve squeezes the inside of Bucky’s thigh and moves to sit next to Bucky on the bed. “How about,” he says, fingers already working along Bucky’s waistband-- the undone pants not exactly loose-- “I help you take these off and then we see if we can pop some of these buttons?” He pats Bucky’s belly gently. 

 

“Mmm,” Bucky says, “Yes.” And this time, it’s definitely a wink. 

 

***

 

By the time Steve gets back to the bedroom from his preparations in the kitchen, Bucky’s all situated up against the headboard, looking wanton and Botticellian. He’s undone one of the top buttons of the shirt so the tight curvature of his swollen gut is incredibly evident. The buttons already look a little strained, and Steve strangles a little moan in his throat so he doesn’t trip and get cheesecake in the carpet. 

 

Steve’s oddly nervous as he approaches the bed, and then he realizes: he’s never actually fed Bucky  _ in bed  _ before. It’s always been on the couch or in the car, or Bucky teasing him by shoving down footlong subs in the gym while Steve’s working out. Sure, they’ve had sex after Bucky’s stuffed, but this somehow feels like more. Like a consummation. Steve hopes they don’t stain the sheets with chocolate sauce. 

 

“Hey,” he says, and he’s proud of himself for not letting his voice crack. “Dessert.” He raises an eyebrow, and Bucky looks up at him lazily, like even that is too much effort. 

 

“First,” Bucky says, “Wanna see you.” He hiccups, and pats his belly absently. 

 

“Okay.” Steve breathes hard, and sets the plate with the cheesecake on the nightstand, then carefully undoes his shirt buttons with only mildly shaking fingers. Then undoes his pants, letting them drop to the floor. Turns around to bend over and take off his socks, so that Bucky can get a good view, and then he’s standing there in just his tiny briefs, and Bucky’s looking at him like he’s starving, though- god, Steve knows that’s not true. 

 

“Still got some room in here?” Steve asks, palming Bucky’s stomach through the shirt. It’s firm, but to Steve’s trained feel, there’s still a little room. He’s gotten to know Bucky’s capacity in these past few months, and he knows that he can handle a bit more, especially when his gut is in Steve’s capable hands. 

 

“You mean in this big fat belly?” Bucky asks, and he knows just what to say to make Steve’s knees go weak. 

 

Steve swallows, hard. He has to settle for a strong nod because he doesn’t trust his mouth right about now. Or at least the words that might spill out of it. Instead, he trusts Bucky’s bratty mouth with a huge bite of cheesecake. 

 

Said bratty mouth swallows, then opens again and says, “More.” 

 

***

 

Midway through the piece of cheesecake-- which had been very generous indeed-- Steve feels like he experiences something like accidental astral projection. He’s kneeling in front of Bucky on the bed, Bucky’s thick legs spread apart to make room for his gluttony, and every time Steve leans forward to give Bucky another little bite, his rock hard cock makes contact with Bucky’s swollen belly. 

 

“Christ,” Steve says, as Bucky moans around the next bite, “You’re going to be the death of me.” 

 

“Me?” Bucky swallows and hiccups hugely. “I’m the one who’s getting death by chocolate-d here.” 

 

“Shh,” Steve soothes, using his free hand to palm little circles on the side of Bucky’s gut. “You love it.” He leans forward again for the cheesecake and has to bite his lip. 

 

Bucky shifts a little, getting comfortable, and then there’s a snapping sound-- he’s lost the middle button of the shirt. 

 

“Fuck,” Steve says, reverently, and feels precum leak out of his cock. “Last bite, baby, then I can’t take it anymore. I have to have you.” 

 

Bucky, full to the gills as he is, manages a wink. “That you will, darlin’. That you will.” 

 

After the last bite, Steve discards the fork on the nightstand and frantically pulls at Bucky’s shirt and its remaining buttons, rutting up against Bucky’s stuffed gut as he does so. 

 

The buttons prove too difficult to undo so Steve pulls them free in his haste, as Bucky looks up at him with a cheeky expression. 

 

“Couldn’t wait?” 

 

Steve’s breathing hard already, and he leans in to kiss Bucky hard. “Nope.” 

 

“Good.” Bucky shifts a little, making a soft keening sound as Steve runs his hands over his sensitive stomach. 

 

“You’re so beautiful,” Steve tells him, nipping at the soft pad of pudge on Bucky’s chin. “God, so beautiful.” He kisses down Bucky’s chin, circles his tongue around Bucky’s nipple, and then comes back up to his sweet, chocolatey mouth. 

 

Steve’s making little keening noises himself now, so turned on and desperate that he might just explode, even though Bucky’s the one who’s full to the brim. 

 

Steve’s boxer briefs are too much hassle to really deal with, so he just shoves them down and presses up against Bucky, feels his cock meet with the firm softness that is Bucky’s gut. 

 

He comes, and it’s not just astral ejaculation. 

 

*** 

 

Steve kisses Bucky hard after he’s done seeing stars, and then reaches down to give Bucky’s own cock a squeeze. 

 

“Hey,” Steve says, after a pause. “Do you want to try something, if you’re not too full?” 

 

Bucky’s bright eyes blink at him, once, twice. He nods. 

 

“Do you,” Steve starts, slowly, “want to fuck me?” 

 

He watches Bucky’s pupils dilate, feels a little postcoital shiver of arousal as Bucky nods, vehemently. This isn’t a usual thing for them-- the switching of roles. But right now it feels right, like he’s hitting a perfectly straight handstand, or sticking a landing. 

 

Getting into position is a little gymnastic, too. Steve takes some time to let Bucky work him open with his fingers and some lube until he’s moving himself up and down on them, babbling about how much he wants Bucky to fuck him. 

 

Bucky keeps up his lazy rhythm until Steve feels like he can’t take it anymore, and Bucky drawls out, “You ready for me to fill you up, sweetheart? The way you do me?” 

 

Steve nods furiously, although of course it won’t be exactly the same way-- Bucky’s not going to stuff Steve silly with pasta and pastry, but he is certainly going to fill him up with his cock, which is of average length but above average thickness, much like its owner. 

 

Bucky lubes up a little more with his good hand, and Steve slides himself down onto Bucky’s cock, then moves himself up and down with a groan of pleasure. 

 

“I’m not gonna be able to do much work, honey,” Bucky says, and Steve’s completely okay with that. He’s more than willing to pull both their weight-- especially Bucky’s. 

 

And especially now, when every so often their movement makes Bucky wince or hiccup a little or stifle a little belch, emphasizing how stuffed he still is. And especially when Steve can see all that weight and where it’s settled. 

 

It doesn’t take long for Steve to work Bucky up to begging; even in their momentarily switched roles, Bucky’s still asking Steve if he can come, and where normally Steve would draw it out, tease Bucky almost to the point of oblivion, tonight he thinks Bucky’s deserved an easy orgasm. 

 

“Okay, baby,” Steve says. “You can come.”

 

*****

**Author's Note:**

> As I write more and get a little more technical about gymnastics, I plan to add in gifs of the skills in each chapter in the endnotes so that it's easier to picture. I'm a huge gymnastics nerd so please feel free to ask anything about anything!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at superstringtheory.tumblr.com!


End file.
